tenthreeleader

Not that any of it mattered. I was more interested in my team, to be frank. Liburd immediately accepted my counter offer to come to us as a player, and I told him he’d be more than welcome to help me run training – purely because he was interested, of course. Not that I’d fly in the face of my chairman saying I shouldn’t have more than two unpaid volunteer coaches. Whatever. So, with Liburd in the fold, I turned my attention to finding more freebies. I quickly found two, and one in a place where we could frankly use some help. That would be in goal, where Traynor and Skelly presently reside. Since I can’t play both of them at the same time, I have to do something to allow me to field one reasonably good keeper instead. I feel that would be 28-year old Welshman Alex Davies, who signed two days after Liburd. He came in on a trial and though he hasn’t played in two years, he was a trainee at Swansea and played for them in their League One days before spending four seasons with Carmarthen Llanelli in the Welsh Premier League, suiting up 37 times. He’s tall (6’3”), strong, is an excellent jumper and has absolute command of his area by comparison to anyone else in our colors. He’s also got good, quick hands and isn’t afraid to take charge of his defenders. So, all that’s good. The other player I’m happy to see arrive is 22-year old full back Darren Nash, another Ulsterman. He spent three seasons with Institute in their Premiership before moving to Limavady United last year. When that club was relegated, he was let go. Nash will slot straight into that left full back spot for us. So, in the span of a week’s time we brought in three players on no salary at all who are all going to find places in the XI. With those three joining Kenny, Winter and Wannell as new arrivals in addition to my signings off our reserve team, we’ll have an almost entirely new team next season as compared to the start of 2009. That will mean they’ll need time to jell. As opposed to a team that loses 31 straight matches, that is. I mean, how bad can it really be? We haven’t resorted to the last refuge of the desperate, a public tryout camp, as of yet. But, you never know. Join Kildare County and see the world. What an advertising slogan. I was on my way into Coffy’s after another trip in from Dublin when I ran into Alana outside the pub. I asked how she was getting on, and quickly noticed that a child was hiding behind her out of shyness. Clearly, the girl was her daughter and I waited for an introduction to be made. I soon made Little Patrice’s acquaintance – still hiding, but introduced nonetheless – and I quickly talked with her mother while the girl waited. This meant that she had at least two kids, so I had learned something else about her. “Oh, I’m doing all right,” she said. “Getting by, you know how it is.” I did indeed know, or at least I thought I did. “It was nice of you to talk with me the other night,” I said. “I appreciate people who take the time and who make the effort. You’d be surprised how many do not.” “Try me,” she said, a wan smile crossing her face. I bit my tongue. Every time I ‘try’ someone, it winds up biting me, usually hard and in a delicate location. “It’s tough sometimes,” I admitted. “But I don’t want to keep you from whatever you’re doing.” “Will you be in there long?” Alana asked, motioning to the door with a thumb pointed over her shoulder. “Don’t think so,” I said. “I need to get back to Dublin tonight, I’ve an early meeting tomorrow.” “Well, how about I call you later when I’m free?” she asked. “The wee ones will be in bed then.” I brightened. “Sure,” I replied. I wrote down my personal phone number on a club business card and handed it to her. “Enjoy your day.” I then went home and happily waited for my phone to ring. Naturally, it never did. ##

How is my gardening leave going?

14 September 2022 Reading v Sunderland – Championship Match Day #10 Referee: Chris Kavanagh Match Theme: Workin’ Day and Night – Michael Jackson Ryan got some good news from Hirons upon arrival at the ground. He was informed that Carroll, Abrefa and Nesta Guinness-Walker were all available for selection, reducing the load in the training room by half. Guinness-Walker was the farthest away of the three from full match activity so after speaking with the player, Ryan made him available for u-21 play until his match sharpness and fitness returned to their normal levels. Carroll, on the other hand, went straight into the team. Scouting reports showed that Sunderland could be victimized through the air and there was nobody on the team better to take advantage of that fact than he was. Abrefa made the substitutes’ bench, held back by Yiadom’s recent good form, but he said he was ready for anything the manager might decide, and he was training better since recovering from his twisted knee as well. They were prepared to face a Sunderland team that was replete with its usual drama, having sagged all the way to 22nd place in the early going and increasing the pressure on their latest manager, Tony Mowbray. They had only played seven matches, the fewest in the Championship, but had only collected six points from them and that had their intensely loyal fan base already in five-alarm-fire mode. Still, they traveled in their thousands, which boosted Reading’s gate, made Dai more money and delayed the fans’ wish for him to sell up. You couldn’t win for losing sometimes. While the teams warmed up, Ryan watched second-placed Bristol City hold leaders Norwich to a 0-0 draw in Norwich, an impressive result with the hosts already three points clear of the field after only nine games played. They entered to the King of Pop, with the music selectors hoping some of his magic would rub off on the team. As the match kicked off, Ryan decided to listen to Rae and pull the team back from its favored positive approach to a more balanced one. He then watched as Sunderland started on the front foot and won two corners within the first five minutes. Ryan gave the arrangement a few more minutes before switching back and was immediately rewarded. A long ball to the center of the field shook Yakou Meite loose down the right. He reached the area and cut back for Ince, who calmly slotted home fifteen minutes into the match to give Reading the early advantage. Yet, despite everything they had done to gain the early advantage, there was no “boots on necks” from the team for the remainder of the first half. Mowbray had his team in the perfect response mode to the goal, with Manchester United loanee Amad Diallo spearheading the attack and nearly finding the range 35 minutes into the match. Then Carroll took a high ball over the top of the Sunderland defense and lashed home, only for the goal to be rightly chalked off for offside. Despite Sunderland’s known deficiencies in the air, Reading’s crossing was awful in the first half and as such there was no service to Carroll, who didn’t play well as a pressing forward by nature. Still, Reading got to the break ahead 1-0 and these things could be forgotten, or at least worked on, to prepare for the second half. Worrying to Ryan was Naby Sarr’s complete switching off in the first half right after the goal. He had also been carded early in the match and was a prime candidate for early replacement, but Ryan decided to personally talk with his central defender during the halftime break. “Naby, I need to know if you want to be out there,” Ryan said, and the defender reacted with shock. “Of course I do,” he said indignantly. “Then you need to prove it to me,” Ryan said levelly, turning away from his defender. “Because you don’t look to me like you do.” Thus fortified, with the rest of the team in better spirits, the second half began and again Reading looked sluggish in the early moments of play. But then it was Ince making another play – sadly, for the wrong team. His woeful ball forward just after the hour was intercepted by Joe Gelhardt and just like that, it was 1-1 in 62 minutes. “We look like we’ve never tried to pass or cross a football before,” Ryan moaned. Rae shrugged, while further down the bench, Rob was waiting for his turn to speak. “Take the focus off the right wing,” he finally said, when Ryan had nodded for his father’s advice. He had a point. With Meite first shifted to the striker position when Carroll came off four minutes after the Sunderland goal, and then to left wing, he could be paired against the yellow-carded American international Lynden Gooch. With Ince striking well but not passing well, it seemed the logical thing to do. But nothing helped. Sunderland had the majority of attempts in the match despite 61 percent Reading possession, but was spectacularly wasteful with them. The result was a draw that neither team liked, but which got Sunderland out of the drop zone and which made the Royals unbeaten in four – though they had only managed to win one. Reading 1-1 Sunderland Ince 15; Gelhardt 62 # # #

It would really have annoyed me greatly if Coffy’s would have been off-limits to me as well after the incident between Nola and Alana. Drinking seemed to be one thing I could do fairly well. As the weeks dragged on during the Irish close season and everyone else in Europe was playing football, it gave me a chance to watch other clubs and see how they did things. I made one more trip to England as my funds permitted as soon as I had banked enough time in my new job to take a week away. I caught a couple of games in the Unibond League to see how clubs roughly at our level played the game. It also gave me a chance to get away from the old group in Newbridge, to be quite honest. I saw Marine play Matlock Town and, just to be cruel to myself, watched FC United play Northwich Vics at Gigg Lane. For crying out loud, FC United are a level below the Conference North but they’ve got their own television channel. Ah, the life. Looking at their players and then trying to figure out my own eleven for next season, I got a significant case of class envy. Even the smaller clubs in England had so much more resource, it was just amazing. Of course, I also thought that my being seen at one or two of these grounds might wind up in the local paper and might make Nakov question my loyalty again. Not that this was a bad thing. He had treated me very poorly. If someone truly did have me on a shortlist, I might have to contemplate moving back to England. For money. Wow, what a switch. I also thought a bit about Alana, and what possessed her to sit with me at the bar. Maybe it was because she thought I was the only person in the place who would be seen around her – so in that respect, we were probably even. I also wondered why Nola had been so ambivalent toward her. That didn’t seem to make any sense. She was Flood’s girlfriend, so unless Floody had been a very busy boy recently, there was little reason for her to be upset. Flood’s a good guy, even if I am jealous as hell of him. I need him to do a job for me this season, though, so it’s not as though I can say anything about him even if I despise him – which I honestly don’t. I just wish I could find some of this so-called ‘Luck of the Irish’. As I thought it through, I missed an FC United buildup that resulted in a goal. That figured. ## Things seemed to settle down at the club after I returned from England. We settled comfortably into the close season and I had the opportunity to spend a Christmas holiday without the pressure of matches or a holiday schedule. I liked that feeling, to be honest. I also settled into the community, and it was about time for that. There are places where that’s not so easy to do, and there are managers who either don’t try or who find it insanely difficult. I had a few wags tell me I had built quite a local reputation on one victory, and after I took their ribbing with good humor, I gained a little more respect in and around the town. I suppose it’s the same the world over. You really can’t claim to belong in a community until you’re accepted, and that can take time depending on where the natives live. In some places, including some where I’ve lived, it never seems to happen at all. So to get a friendly smile and wave from certain of the good people of Newbridge was really heartwarming. I’ve never really had a great deal of self-confidence in interpersonal relationships, so one might wonder why I would think being a football manager was a good career for me. Or a corporate recruiter, for that matter. In professional settings, I’ve been fine for much of my life. I can talk with someone professionally and have no difficulties at all. It’s when I get into the personal settings that I have had trouble. So in a way, all those nights at Coffy’s weren’t the worst things in the world for me. I need the practice, quite frankly. Finally, two weeks after getting back from England, I screwed up the courage to ask Nola what had happened between Alana and her. “Well, she talks about Eamon like he can be saved or something,” she said. “Everyone in town knows what he did to her and what kind of man he is. I mean, you’ve seen him. He’s the town gigolo.” “Someone has to be,” I said, taking a sip from my Guinness and drawing a glare from the barmaid. She made a move as if to slap the bottom of my glass up into my face and I backed away sharply, spilling some of the stout over the rim. “People know about him,” Nola said. “And they know about her. She’s not a bad person, mind you, but she just makes bad decisions.” “That explains why she sat next to me, then,” I said dryly. “Stop,” she answered. “Look, Matt, I’ve come to like you a bit since you got here. You’re a nice man, a bit sarcastic perhaps, but a man who hasn’t had a lot of luck in love. I’m telling you, just avoid the situation.” “Well, what makes you think I was interested?” “You looked at her like you were drowning,” she replied, and I blushed in response. “I hate it when I’m obvious.” “Well, don’t be,” Nola said. “At least, not with her.” “I still don’t get why you’re so upset about her,” I said. “Not that it’s my business, but …” “…but by asking the question, you’re making it your business,” she said, stopping the conversation momentarily to serve a new patron. She returned quickly, and lowered her voice so only I could hear. “Matt, you’re too good for her,” she said. My glass, again nearly halfway to my mouth, this time nearly slipped out of my hand in shock. “You’ve never intimated anything like that to me before,” I said. “Well, it’s true. You’re a good man and a good person. Don’t get mixed up with Alana. It’s not worth your time.” With that, she returned to her job and I was left to wonder what on earth had caused such enmity between the two women. I figured it had to do with a man. We guys think like that. ##

He really hadn’t wanted to discipline Bouzanis, who was immensely likeable and a player popular with his teammates. But Ryan hadn’t felt he had a choice. At this level, the game wasn’t for mollycoddles. Everyone knew that. The fact that some people had it easier than others simply reinforced the idea that sometimes life was just unfair. Ryan made it a point to hand out praise as well – not to the point of being obsequious, but to let the players, especially Bouzanis, know that he could notice the good as well as the bad, as the team continued its strong start to the season. Things had even cooled down with the front office and the board room, to an extent. Dai still hadn’t put in an appearance at the stadium and wasn’t likely to as long as he was less popular than scurvy among the Royals faithful. All this gave Ryan time and space. And that was what he needed most – the time to get the players to come together as a true team, the kind that everyone wants their team to be but which for some reason never quite figures out how to get there. Yet, Ryan had achieved very strong results with a very simple tactic, and that had raised a few eyebrows around the Championship. In his pre-match media briefing prior to hosting Sunderland, Ryan tried to explain it. Unfortunately for him, Anderson was the questioner, who wanted to know why he couldn’t seem to find anything more complex to give his charges than a simple 4-2-3-1. Ryan chose to be discreet in his answer this time, though, deciding to see how it might work out for him. “Because the Championship is a real grind, Colin, as you are well aware,” he began. “There are very few leagues in the world, perhaps probably none outside England, who expect 46 regular season matches out of their players. I feel that if you’re going to succeed in a league like this one, you have to keep it simple, especially since we have a small squad and not a lot of room for error. I want this team to learn together, work together and above all play together regardless of who is out there from one match to the next. The time will probably come when I’ll want to throw in a wrinkle at a key moment or for a key opponent, but none of that matters if we can’t beat the drop after starting so well. I hope that answers your question.” Anderson looked at Ryan like he had just been hit by lightning. Finally, he spoke. “Yes, yes it does, Ryan,” he said. “Thank you.” He then got a chance to talk about the Black Cats, one of England’s recent hard-luck clubs. Netflix miniseries notwithstanding, it hadn’t been very pleasant to be a Sunderland fan in recent years. Despite resources thrown into the club by a parade of owners, there wasn’t a lot in the way of results to be seen for it all. Sunderland had won only one of its first seven matches, placing them four points behind Reading even with the points deduction added in. The fact that they had three draws was the only thing keeping them out of the drop zone. They were probably looking for an away day in any event, having played their last two matches at home and winning neither. First they had crashed 3-nil to Norwich, which was galling enough for a Sunderland fan, and then they had failed to protect leads of 2-nil and 3-2 in a 4-4 draw with Millwall that, rather surprisingly, saw both teams score own goals. Ryan had snickered when he saw the analytics from that match. The XG was Millwall 1.1, Sunderland 0.5. So naturally it had wound up 4-4. The media meeting was more lighthearted than he could remember it being. He didn’t mind that a bit. # # #

I spent the next few weeks stewing over Nakov’s backhanded slap at me in the office. For him to behave that way toward someone he wasn’t even paying was really beyond the pale. I’m essentially a volunteer in this position, doing what I do for the love of the game and to try to make my way – eventually – in this game. Yet I feel a sense of unfinished business and nobody who treats me like Nakov treated me will be a part of it when I’m done. I sat there and stewed. Oh, and I drank a bit too. I was a regular at Coffy’s after the work in Dublin was done. I was even starting to make a few friends – even besotted bar patrons can often recognize the drunk next to them was the same guy who was equally drunk in the same spot the night before. Well, not a drunk. But you know what I mean. Every now and again, I’d see some of the players in the place but by and large they were sticking to a close-season regimen that didn’t include regular drinking. I was happy to see it – or happy not to, as it actually worked out. I’d talk with Nola from time to time, but whenever Flood was in the place – which happened from time to time – I kept my distance from both. Bishop showed up one Friday evening, which was nice to see. The club’s mighty two coaches sat at the bar this time, the pain of the long season now passed into memory since the club had stayed up. We felt secure enough, as it were, to show our faces in public. We talked with the patrons about the coming season and about what we were trying to do to strengthen the squad. Such as it was – we still weren’t very good no matter how you sliced it. Yet somehow that didn’t seem to matter much to these people. We would put out a team that represented them, they wouldn’t come to the games, but they’d talk about them afterward. It all seemed odd to me. So I sat with my deputy and we had a relaxed conversation with the townsfolk. That was nice. When a young lady moved up to sit next to me, I almost jumped out of my skin, but eventually got over it. She had flowing black hair that culminated in a wavy flip just below her shoulders and large, dark eyes. “Alana Carrigan,” she said, extending her hand. I smiled, and shook it. “A pleasure, I’m sure,” I answered, to a look of amusement from Bishop. “Matt doesn’t get out often,” he said. “At least not in groups that don’t involve eleven men.” I shot him a glare, but Alana seemed to find Bishop funny so I let it pass. “What brings you here tonight?” I asked. “Night away from the child,” she responded. That seemed reasonable. If I had any, I supposed I would want to be free from them every so often as well. “Good for you,” I finally answered. “He’s with Eamon,” she said, taking a sip from a glass of Guinness. Judging by her shape, she didn’t drink often, and that seemed to agree with her quite nicely. “You have me at a disadvantage,” I said, realizing pretty quickly that I ought not to pry. “Eamon, who’s Diarmid’s father,” she replied. Now the look Bishop shot at me was entirely different. “Perhaps you’ve seen him around Newbridge, he’s the fellow who has the black Aston Martin with the fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror and the big bumper sticker on the car boot.” I couldn’t place such a car in my mind, but Alana certainly could. Perhaps the sticker might jog my memory, so I asked. “What does the sticker say?” I asked. She gave me a glum expression in return. “Orgasm Donor.” I nearly choked on my beer. “I should think I’d have remembered that,” I said, as Bishop tried and failed to suppress a snort of laughter. “He’s rather unforgettable,” Alana answered. ‘Sorry to hear that.” “Everyone is, I’m sure you’re the only one in town who hasn’t heard the story.” She didn’t look terribly upset, which was a bit surprising. She did look, however, like a woman who had accepted her fate. I took a deep pull from my glass and finished the beverage. Nola immediately appeared to give me a re-fill and looked across the bar at my companion. Her gaze returned to me. “And how is Mister Livingston this evening?” she asked. “I have no idea, but Matt is doing passably,” I replied. “And you are presently learning about Miss Carrigan,” she said, just the hint of a crease appearing on her brow as she spoke. “I am,” I replied, looking over at my table neighbor, whose expression had changed not a whit. There seemed to be a history between the two and I could tell right away that I wanted no part of it. Not that it would matter – now was the point in most of my interactions with women that I’d say something stupid, wreck everything, and take my cue to go home and spend the rest of the evening with my Playstation. The two women looked at each other, and I turned to Bishop. “I think Winter’s going to be a hell of a player, don’t you?” I said. ##

So, I spent my off days trying to build up my job in Dublin. It was really all there was to do after taking a quick look through lists of out of contract players. Many of those players were either out of our range (which is to say, they were salaried) or out of options, in which case they were candidates to play for us. The idea was to go through the scrap heap and try to find serviceable parts. Hard to stomach when you’re talking about footballers like that, but it didn’t take me long to face the facts – we’re bottom of the heap in a lower division. So it has to be that way. Short of putting out public adverts for players, there’s really no other way to attract potential players to our club, and short of going professional, there’s nothing to stop our best players walking away for nothing if someone offers them a fee – or a salary, for that matter. The overhead is low, but so is the security. For all of us. One example of that was when I offered a contract to 36-year old Englishman Richard Liburd, a veteran full back who can play just about anywhere on the park. He has a long history in the game but had spent the last three seasons as a player-coach (well, okay, coach) at Hucknall, where he didn’t get into a game. His big claim to fame was playing 41 matches for Middlesbrough in 1993-94, the season after their relegation from the Premier League. He then commanded a transfer fee of £230,000 to go to Bradford, where he spent four seasons. After a year at Carlisie, he went to Notts County where he spent five more seasons before stops at Lincoln City, Eastwood and Hucknall. Now, he was interested in becoming a player-coach for me. And amazingly, Nakov said no. “You have enough coaches,” he said. “I have one coach,” I said. “And about forty players on two squads. And he wouldn’t make any money.” “I said you have enough coaches,” he replied. I was thunderstruck. “You are telling me that a player who makes no money at all cannot join me as a coach for no money when I make no money myself.” “Yes, that is my word.” I was too stunned to put up much of a fight, so instead, I sent a text to Liburd asking if he wouldn’t mind coming here as a player. When he gets here, I’ll quietly ask him if he wouldn’t mind helping run a training session. That is, if he doesn’t die laughing first. It was just amazing. “May I ask what is prompting this?” I asked. “You pay expenses for everyone, myself included. Why do you hold this opinion?” The darker side of the chairman now seemed to spill over the top of the conversation. “This,” he said, throwing me a copy of a newspaper. I tried to catch it and failed, the contents of the paper spilling onto the floor. I picked up the back page and saw it was the Rochdale Observer. There was a story on it that said the club, which is fourth in League Two and chasing promotion, may lose manager Keith Hill when his contract expires. The reporter said: “That is why you have enough coaches,” Nakov snapped. “This is hard enough without you looking for work elsewhere.” “It’s also not true,” I said, albeit reluctantly. Spotland seemed a palace compared to Station Road, which was pretty in its day but already starting to show signs of wear and tear despite only being built eight years ago. I heard they also paid their players and might even pay their manager. But I denied the story. “This is the first I’ve heard of it,” I insisted. “Look, I quit my job in Blackpool and moved here. Would I honestly do that if I were thinking of moving to Manchester?” “Your assignment is this club,” Nakov said, leaving me to pick up the wreckage of the newspaper. “This club. Do you understand?” “Of course I do,” I said. Nakov then left, leaving me even angrier than before. ##

Some rest was good, but Ryan, of course, never stopped working. All he wanted was for his team to get into some sort of rhythm. They were performing above expectations, to be certain, but this business of playing twice a week for a month and then once in ten days was playing hell both with training as well as fitness. The squad was small, yes, but they were all getting chances to play and that much was fine. But Ryan was still learning the art of how to balance a squad and the various needs of each of its players. He managed men differently than a lot of managers did – he gave them credit for being men until they gave him a reason not to. That seemed fair to everyone. That meant the players were on their best behavior until they messed up and drew Ryan’s ire. He had made it plain that if he ever called a player by his first and last name, that player was in trouble he didn’t want to be in. Which was why Dean Bouzanis had been called, by name, to the manager’s office on the Monday following the Watford match. Now the team’s third-choice keeper after the promotion of the precociously talented Coniah Boyce-Clarke to the senior squad, Bouzanis hadn’t been taking his training with a sufficient level of seriousness in recent days. He sat across the manager’s desk from Ryan, who motioned to a television screen on the wall to his left and took a remote from his desk. “Dean, watch this,” Ryan said, hitting the play button for an obviously pre-recorded sequence of video. The video was from the last few training sessions and showed, in the main, Bouzanis standing around. Or sitting, a cardinal sin in most managers’ training sessions. To be fair to the player, Ryan also included some decent work done by the Australian in training, but after a minute or so, his point had been made. “What’s up with that?” Ryan asked. “Well, I went down the pecking order a bit, and I reckon I didn’t handle that as well as I should have,” the keeper admitted. “That’s an understatement,” Ryan said, trying not to sound severe but knowing he needed to say what had to be said next. “It isn’t professional,” Ryan said, and Bouzanis looked up at him with a wounded expression. “I’ve played two hundred senior matches, gaffer,” he replied. “I think that deserves a bit of consideration.” “Which is why I’m talking with you here, behind a closed door, instead of out on the ground in front of your teammates,” Ryan said, with just enough of a knife edge in his voice to cut the skin but not cause bleeding. “That’s out of respect for you. Can I see better in training, please?” Bouzanis nodded. There was really nothing he could say, and both men knew it. It was once said of the American baseball manager Frank Robinson that he could “step on your shoes but not mess up your shine.” It was precisely this effect Ryan was trying to have on Bouzanis, who as a new arrival at the club prior to Ryan’s taking charge, should have known better than to challenge the manager in the first place. “Look, Dean,” Ryan finally said in an effort to break the silence, “anyone can make a mistake. Let’s consider this one yours and move on from it. You want to play, I’d like to have you available for selection, but I can’t pick you when you behave like that in training.” “Understood,” Bouzanis said. Showing he had learned, he waited for Ryan to end the meeting. # # #

10 September 2022 Watford v Reading, Championship Match Day #9 Ryan stepped off the coach at Vicarage Road at the head of his team and then stepped aside to watch his players pass, one by one, into Watford’s home ground. He was watching for any signs that the ride from Berkshire had had any negative effect on anyone – limps, tight muscles, sore joints, anything that might affect his decisions on how the team should play on the day. Seeing nothing amiss, he proceeded to the visiting manager’s office and finished filling out his team sheet. There wouldn’t be a lot of change from Stoke, but some players needed to get back into the lineup after coming back from international duty. One of those players was Casadei, who had looked very good for Italy’s u-19s and appeared to be riding a good streak of form. So as Ryan briefed the team on the day’s tactics, he had the young midfielder in mind. “We’re going with 4-3-3 today,” he said, in a tone of voice that would have made his father proud. “We’re flipping both attacking forwards to the middle, and we’re going to play a little tiki-taka today.” That brought some smiles from the players, who had something new to talk about. This was a new look for Reading and for Ryan as well, having not used the tactic in a Championship match to date, so unveiling it playing away to the sixth-placed team was a real risk. But the players loved it. Casadei liked it even more when Ryan used an Italian word to describe his role for the day. “Play a mezzala style,” Ryan said, in a tone that would have raised his father’s eyebrows. Rob had managed in Italy before coming to Reading, and he would have no more started a mezzala player in midfield than he would have stood on the touchline without his pants. “We want possession today and that means Cesare has a role to fill,” Ryan said. A player in the half-spaces could link midfield to forwards in a narrow attack, and that was just what Ryan had in mind. “They are weak up the middle,” Ryan said. “Focus play through the middle, let’s move the ball among these gentlemen and when we wear them out, we’ll pip a goal and head back home. What do you say, lads?” Loud agreement greeted the manager which was gratifying for more than one reason. Buy-in is always good to see from players, but enthusiasm was something quite different. The team went through its warmups in high spirits and punctually at 3:00, the match kicked off. Ryan expected a strong start from the home team, which had crashed 4-0 against Huddersfield in its prior match. Stung to the quick and challenged by their manager, Watford started out on the front foot, while Ryan’s tiki-taka was able to deny Watford what it most wanted, which was possession. Reading picked up some unfortunate good fortune twelve minutes into the match, when Watford’s Udinese loanee, Hassane Kamara, hobbled off injured rubbing his right calf, taking a pretty good wing player right out of the equation for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, once again the Royals had a hard time producing quality attacks with the possession they had, which was the lion’s share over the first half hour. Watford had the only two good chances of that time period and it took a full 35 minutes before Ince came close with a rasping drive from eighteen yards that barely missed the crossbar, which wouldn’t have helped but which would have made a much better sound. Still and all, they got to halftime scoreless and that was a victory of sorts for a team being asked to tinker with its engine while the motor was running. Casadei hadn’t played badly but there was a general staleness to the Royals that came with a lot of matches in a short period of time, and that would simply take time to overcome. The need became more urgent when Ismalia Sarr opened the scoring for Watford four minutes after the restart. The Senegalese beat Lumley with some ease with some help from the Brazilian João Pedro, who at age twenty was evidently not old enough to have only one name. Ryan decided to stick with Casadei in his role and was rewarded when he found Yiadom with a seeing-eye ball down the flank for the overlapping fullback. His cutback found Junior Hoilett right where he was supposed to be, and the ball was right where it was supposed to be soon after, which is to say in the back of the net. It was another battling performance away from home. Three points were probably not on the cards, but the one Reading got would have to be enough. Watford 1-1 Reading Sarr 49; Hoilett 72 A – 19,348 (1,110 away) # # #

As a corporate recruiter, I felt tempted to ask more than a few times if the people I was trying to find for local companies could also play a little football on the side. Settling into the close season in Ireland is different from most other places due to the vagaries of the scheduling here. Nobody else except MLS is out of season over the winter, so there was plenty of football to watch on television while my players recovered from the exertions of their season. The highlight to that point had been a media event to introduce Kenny and Winter to the club right after the Bohemians match. I felt it a good idea to show people who had showed up to the ground wearing uniforms formerly worn by other players. It’s a good thing for everyone’s morale, I guess. I could have used a few things to help my morale as well. In the close season, I would sit there and think about football and about the one match we had managed to win under my charge. I wanted to know what Bohemians was up to so I could have some idea of who might show up on loan for the coming season. I wanted to know what everyone else was up to so I knew how big the ladder would be that we’d have to climb toward respectability for the new season. And above all, I just wanted the season to start. I made a trip to Coffy’s once a week or so and once word got round that the manager who worked in Dublin was going to stick around for a bit, I actually started to talk to a few people. Not Flood, though. That was still a bit raw. I knew I had no shot at his girlfriend, but I was really wondering why she hadn’t mentioned anything about dating one of my players when she knew full well what I was doing in the pub and who I was. Not that her personal life is any of my damn business. It just galled me. I still have that right, anyway. The release of the yearly honors naturally contained no mention of any of my players, which was completely unsurprising. What I was hoping for was not to concede the Goal of the Year, and that little goal was thankfully realized. The league’s Manager of the Year award went to Liam Buckley of Sporting Fingal, who got himself promoted to the Premier Division through the playoffs, while my friend Dermot Keely took second for winning the league with Shelbourne. Tony Cousins of fourth-placed Longford Town took third. That day we lost out on another signing, when 34-year old defender Gary Magennis spurned us and Northern Irish side Chimney Corner to sign for Annagh United of Northern Ireland’s second division from Lurgan Celtic. That was a shame – he’d have given us a decent presence in the back line for sure. But then, he was getting a wage. We couldn’t offer that. We were losing out on half-decent players, all things considered, due o the status of our club, or lack of the same. It was starting to get frustrating. ##

I suppose it does, at that .... who knew? ___ “Why is Dad always so aggressive?” Ryan sat next to his mother at the kitchen table on the night before the Watford match. The team was going to take an early matchday coach the next morning – ownership had decided against lodging the players in a hotel the night before the match. It wasn’t necessarily a deal-breaker for the team’s chances, but Ryan still would have preferred a relaxed buildup to the match rather than scrambling to get everyone on a coach at 8 a.m. But for now, Ryan sat with Patty and they talked about the person to whom they were related by marriage. “Remember what your father went through to keep the job you have,” she said. “All the fights he had to endure. It put an edge on him and he kept it in things that had to do with football.” “Well, yes, but there’s a lot of conflict in him.” “Yes, but he also had the sense to understand where his position was strongest,” she answered. “He inherited a team that was on the up, and he knew it. He knew that getting over with the fans was going to be the biggest factor in his success, so he became their defender. You don’t have that luxury, but you do have the relationships he built with them. That’s how we won his battles, and you have his legacy with them to win yours.” “At least that’s what he thinks,” Ryan answered, taking a sip from a cup of tea. “Well, he’s always said it’s your team,” she replied patiently. She had spent many years defending her husband’s behavior which could at times be quite fiery, but she also knew that much of that fire was directed at protecting her and their family. “It’s just funny,” Ryan said. “Just once it would be interesting if he said something like ‘you should get a gift for Dai and get on his good side.’” “I think he’d rather scratch his eyeballs with a fork,” Patty smiled. “He’s fought for everything he gained in the game,” she added. “It’s not in his nature to sit down and shut up when there’s a principle to fight for.” “Or a person to fight,” Ryan smiled. It wasn’t exactly a fair characterization, but for the time being, it would do. Rob was not a fighter by nature but if you got into his business, he could make you regret it. And everything he did was for his family, even though sometimes the added bonus of an ego stroke could make the fight sweeter to win. He did have an ego. Most great managers do. They don’t get their jobs unless they think they can do them better than anyone else, and once Rob showed he actually could do it better than anyone else, he wasn’t shy in telling people about it. But Ryan was different. Though he had his mother’s red hair, he didn’t have the redhead’s famed fiery temper. He was a different person, and didn’t always like to mix it up with the press, board members, media types or any of the other hangers-on that dog a professional football club. Winning on the pitch was the most important thing for him, and he figured that once he showed he could do that, the other battles would take care of themselves. While Rob slept in the next room, Ryan realized that he faced a decision he was eventually going to have to make; whether to fall into his father’s orbit or break away into deep, uncharted space. Just then Annie, who had overheard the conversation, entered the kitchen and crossed behind her husband to rub his shoulders. “You can do anything you want,” she reminded him. “You can do anything you set your mind to. Whether or not your father is a brilliant manager – which he was and probably still is – you can carve your own pathway.” Patty smiled at her daughter-in-law and spoke with tongue planted firmly in cheek. “Maybe one Rob Ridgway is enough,” she said playfully. # # #

The idea was to put the best eleven players out there and see what happened. An arranged friendly against our parent club, Bohemians, resulted in a 2-0 defeat that wasn’t nearly as close as the score, but got Nakov an extra gate against the champions of Ireland. It also allowed me to get a look at a few of the new players on my last day of holiday time from my job. The next day, we signed onetime Liverpool trainee Marc Kenny to a contract for his second tour of duty with the club. He had been with us in our second season, in 2003, on loan from Shamrock Rovers. He had even scored for us, which is more than I could say for most of my current players. He had spent parts of eleven seasons with Rovers with time at Dublin City, Monaghan United, and Ashtown Villa in there as well before spending three years with Phoenix FC of the Leinster Premier Division. We can’t be all kids out there, and the 36-year old Kenny is the kind of player I feel we need to give us a mature, playmaking presence in the center of the park. He doesn’t have much time left in the game but I would like him tutoring some of our younger players as well to take advantage of him playing ‘for the love of the game’. All that said, the best part about going back to work after the friendly was that I was prepared to leave it. My request for a sabbatical to manage the Thoroughbreds for another season was denied so I left the Inland Revenue the week after the Bohemians friendly. I applied for, and actually got, a position as a corporate recruiter in Dublin. It still meant a 20-mile or so commute to Newbridge for trainings and matches, but they were willing to accommodate my spare time requests to manage the club – which was necessary due to my complete lack of salary at the club. Despite all the travail and trouble the fully amateur club had gone through over a winless regular season and a harried post-season, there were still no plans afoot to pay anyone anything for the season to come. It was like youth football only with big people. My first day on the job in Dublin was also a day I decided to go move a few things into my little office at the ground. Since I’d be staying for a little while, it seemed like a good idea. I put in a few old family pictures, and put a newly framed newspaper story on the wall commemorating our win over Tralee. It was nice to have a piece of paper on the wall that wasn’t yellowed with age. I’d like to build on that. So, before I headed down the pub, I removed all the old frames from the walls. I looked at the outlines of the old picture frames, rectangular shapes of clean wall trapped in an ocean of darker color. I then resolved to bring a few gallons of paint in the next time I visited the ground. ##

It wasn’t terribly surprising that most of the news around the club for the next few days was about the sacking. There was a sense on the staff that was close to revolt, and the indignation was palpable all over the organization. Naturally, Ryan was asked about it. “I feel terrible about it,” he admitted. “Even though I didn’t do the deed, a life has been affected by innocent fun, and that’s really too bad. The fans will have more to say about this later on, I’m sure.” Ryan knew that Sell Before We Dai had already put out a statement which, in essence, said, “it’s just one more reason for this guy to sell up.” The controversy ran white-hot for a few days while Ryan tried to prepare his team for the next match, only with some time between matches, for a change. Yet the conversation quickly veered back to the incident at the ground, and finally ownership relented to some very strong public pressure and reinstated the sound technician, who in return quite kindly thanked the management for giving him a second chance. He was also bulletproof in a sense now, and he was well aware of it. The storm clouds still hung over the team, though, and Ryan most certainly did not appreciate that. He had simply replied to a question and inadvertently started a kerfuffle that had now become the talk of the town. It wasn’t supposed to work that way. Rob, for his part, counseled his son to lean into the controversy. “You can’t shy away from it, Ryan,” he said. “You’ve appealed to the fans to support your judgments and now one of them got his P45, even though he did get his job back. You can’t back away from that position.” “Why do you always seem to want me to slap the owner in the face?” Ryan asked. “He slapped you first. Twice,” Rob reminded him. “You can deal with it in one of two ways; you can turn your back on it and test your relationship with the fans, or you can meet it head on. No one is saying you have to throw Dai under the bus, even though you might get the liberty of the town if you did. But you reached out to the fans and they want you to reach back to them in return.” Ryan thought it through, and then sent an email to the fan relations department. “Play this song before the next home match,” he said. “Tell everyone that it came from me.” # # #

It really didn’t matter much anyway. She had talked to me a few times. Yet she seemed to be one of the few people who had done so during my time in Newbridge. And I found it odd that she had never come to a match. I also found it odd that none of Flood’s teammates had ever mentioned her at a training session or even casually, at least not where I could hear. You’d think with a gorgeous companion like that, someone would say something to him. Unfortunately, I couldn’t either. I had some real decisions to make. As the season was now over, I returned to Blackpool to try to figure out how I was going to re-structure my life. Nakov had told me that I was welcome to return for the new season, but nothing else had changed. There still wasn’t a Euro to spend either on a player or on a salary. We would still be a fully amateur club in a fully professional division. So, the challenge would definitely still be there for the coming season. That meant I needed to find a better class of amateur player. It would mean tryouts, it would mean combing the lists of released players and trying to build a network so we could evaluate players. Of course, if a player failed, it wouldn’t cost anything to buy out an amateur contract, so there was that to consider. But in looking at the Kildare County squad list, it was obvious that a large number of players would have to go. They were simply filling shirts rather than providing options and that meant I needed to make some decisions. Our link with Bohemians will help – but we can only loan five players from them. The rest, we’re going to have to do ourselves. I’ve got players in my nominal reserves who are better than a lot of my first-teamers. So we made more than a few moves after the second Tralee match. Thomas Coleman, Graham Gough, Tim Jackson, Lee Morris, Alan Martin, Roy Murray, David Duffy and Pat Clarke were all released a week after the Tralee match. None of them had figured in my plans in any event, and few of them had featured at all during my time in charge. Central midfielder Declan Young was the first to be promoted from the reserves, along with several of his teammates. Under-20 striker David Tracey, who I had wanted to promote upon taking over, now got his call-up as well. Sweeper John Fagan, who can already man-mark better than most of my defenders, is also up. He joins defender/midfielder Albert Nolan and central midfielder Steven Ryan as another callup. Yet there are three ‘real’ signings as well. Defender Ian Roche, who played fifteen games for non-league Mount Merrion last season and scored twice, will step into our back line straight away. He’s 29 years old, has a little bit of pace about him, and is by default the best man-marker I’ve got, which is a bit sad. I don’t mind the other two new boys either. Midfielder Jake Wannell, a 19-year old attacker released by Exeter City, is also here and he promises to give us a bit of spark in the middle. Also, we’ve made a strong signing from Portadown, nabbing 19-year old Ryan Winter on a free transfer. He can find the net with either his head or his feet, and that’s something we really need. It does mean that I’ve got five strikers on the squad list at the present time – Winter and Treacy joining holders Chris Horgan, Place, and Flood. I still have problems there as we head into the off-season. Winter is going to be the first name on the team sheet, but finding a partner for him is going to be a problem. The only thing Winter lacks is pace, so finding a quicker partner for him is something I really should look at doing. I like Treacey’s ability to strike a ball but he’s even slower than Winter. Horgan’s quick, but he couldn’t hit water if he fell out of a boat, which is one reason I didn’t play him more last season. Place has the same problem Treacy does, and even though he can finish we’d have an awfully slow front line if he played. That leaves Flood, our leading goal-scorer last season with four, through chances created by volume. He does not possess either the finishing skills or the positioning skills to effectively partner Winter, yet he may be the one by default. Oh, yeah, and there’s the other thing. ##

The next day was a “victory Sunday”, so there was no training. Ryan woke up nestled next to Annie and took a deep breath followed by a long, luxurious sigh. The morning sun was shining brightly, deflected by the bedroom’s curtains to the far wall and out of their eyes. “Nothing to do today,” she said softly, laying her arm across her husband’s chest. “Well, not at the ground, anyway,” he replied. “We do have a whole week without a match, though, so it will be nice to get the players some rest. They need it.” Weatherby’s headline of “Stale Biscuitmen” in the Sunday Post had said it all. The teams had combined for only twelve shot attempts in ninety minutes, with only four of them winding up on target. It had been a dire one-nil, but one that still gave Ryan the three points he craved. They had moved up to 15th in the Championship, which wasn’t a bad place at all for them to be. As importantly, they were five points clear of the relegation zone, which gave them a chance to catch their breath. Norwich was playing like a machine, having gone ten unbeaten in all competitions to lead Bristol City by three points, 20 to 17, in the league table. It took a bit of living for Ryan to note that without the six-point penalty at the start of the season, his team would be third in that table. Rotherham and Hull City, two teams behind Reading in the table, both had matches in hand to play and that could have affected their standing but really, after a frantic August Ryan could have few complaints about how his team had played. Two cup wins and only one loss in the league was a very nice return for a threadbare squad who would welcome its u-21 internationals back with open arms. After scoring the winner the day before, Carroll had had to come off after his leap to head the ball home gave him a tight thigh muscle. This, added to Abrefa’s injury, meant that the Royals now had six senior team members out with injury, even if Abrefa and Carroll were both supposed to be ready for the short trip to northwest London to face Watford the following Saturday. Guinness-Walker was supposed to be ready for training sometime during that week, but the list of healthy bodies in the senior squad was getting painfully short. “Matt has a lot of work to do,” Ryan mused, referring to Hirons, who wasn’t getting a victory Sunday at all with that many players coming in for treatment. Leaning back into the pillows, Ryan flipped on the television. There was good news – a Championship club was rumored to be ready for a board takeover. There was also bad news – the club was not Reading. Instead, it was Blackburn. Of course, in the finest tradition of the footballing media, the names of the club’s “potential investors” were not disclosed even as the story, such as it was, refused to go away. The news continued. Lucas João, the highly-paid veteran striker who had been loaned a league downward to Derby, had scored his first goal for his surrogate club. However, the fact that it came in the Papa John’s Trophy Northern Section Group F against Manchester City’s u-21s might have taken a bit of the gloss off of the accomplishment. For his part, João commanded a salary in excess of £750,000 and that wasn’t sustainable, especially on Yongge’s budget. Better news came from Mbengue’s exploits with France’s u-21s. He had played very well and scored his first international goal in France’s 3-0 win over Turkey the day before. He was already on his way back to Berkshire and would be available for selection against Watford. And then, a surprise. The Sky Sports presenter was pictured in front of a Reading logo and he made Ryan sit up with a start with his words. “Reading have reportedly sacked a member of its game-day operations team for a pre-match song deemed critical of ownership,” he said, and Ryan frowned. “The song ‘Pennies from Heaven’ was played prior to Reading’s match with Stoke over the weekend, in reaction to a media controversy between manager Ryan Ridgway and the club’s Chinese ownership group headed by Dai Yongge. Now, club sources reveal that the individual who made up the pre-match music list has been sacked by the club with immediate effect.” “You have got to be kidding me,” Ryan snarled at no one in particular. That was a good thing, because no one in the front office would have listened had they heard him in any event. # # #

We celebrated like wild men, as you might imagine. We were a happy bunch. We hadn’t died. For once, the other guys had. Coffy’s was thus a hopping place, and judging by the people who now wanted to shake our hands, about half the town would claim to have been in attendance. The fact that just under three hundred of them actually had been there really didn’t matter. They all wanted to have been here, to watch the locals finally come up trumps. We were popular. Flood and Place, the strike partners who had each finally found the range, were leading the celebrations. Back in my usual spot in the corner, I watched them buying rounds and enjoying the fruits of their victory. The place was alive and that was really fun to watch. As I watched, Bishop sat down at my table. “So, Matt, are you moving here now?” he asked. “I have to ask the chairman if I still have a job but if I do, I’ll be coming over as soon as I can find employment,” I answered. “This is starting to become a labor of love.” “You must be mad.” “Possibly,” I said, taking a drink of a Guinness that for once I hadn’t had to buy. That was nice. It had been a long time since I had gotten drunk on someone else’s money. Watching my players cavorting into the wee hours, it seemed to me that they had earned the right. Flood was having an especially good time. He was throwing darts against all comers, beating most of them, and drinking quite a bit, which made me wonder how he could be doing such a great job with the darts. “He’s doing well,” I said to Bishop, motioning to the striker with my glass. “He is,” my assistant agreed. “And his girlfriend is a proper stunner. I imagine that tonight he’s on top of the world.” “Aren’t they all,” I mused, shaking my head at the thought. “I guess when I played, the pretty girls skipped a generation.” Bishop laughed. “Just because you couldn’t find one,” he grinned, drawing a malevolent stare in response. “Okay, sorry,” he said. “How about a drink? I’ll buy.” “Why not,” I said, leaning back in my chair. As Flood finished his game of darts, he accepted another Guinness from Nola. He then kissed her, which made me raise my eyebrows. “Told you she was a stunner,” Bishop said. “Everyone in the place wants Nola. Flood got her.” “I see that,” I said, shaking my head almost imperceptibly. Almost. Bishop noticed. “I see nobody told you,” he said. “Well, everyone finds out sooner or later. I’m sorry.” “Me too,” I mused. “Like I’d have had any chance anyway.” Soon, they left together. I supposed that it would be Flood’s night in more ways than one. ##

3 September 2022 Reading v Stoke City – Championship Match Day #8 Theme: Pennies From Heaven – Rod Stewart and Jools Holland “Ryan, do you hear that?” Rae looked skyward with incredulity, as the coaches followed the teams out of the tunnel for the start of the match, craning his neck for a reason Ryan could only guess at. “Hear what?” “The tannoy,” Rae said, a smile slowly spreading across his face. Ryan listened, and then smiled too. The PA system was playing “Pennies From Heaven,” the old standard from the 1936 movie of the same name. As a way to make light of the club’s internal tension, it was an inspired choice. Before long, the crowd of just under 15,000 was singing: Every time it rains, it rains pennies from heaven Don't you know each cloud contains pennies from heaven? You'll find your fortune falling all over town Be sure that your umbrella is upside down! Trade them for a package of sunshine and flowers If you want the things you love, you must have showers So, when you hear it thunder, don't run under a tree There'll be pennies from heaven for you and me! “Somebody either just got promoted or sacked,” Ryan joked as the coaches took their place in the dugout and the match began. Ryan’s threadbare team had been changed at the last minute due to yet another injury. Kelvin Abrefa, who was going to start this game at right fullback in a clear vote of confidence for the youngster who had just signed a three-year contract with the club, twisted his knee in the last training session prior to the match. It wasn’t anything serious, but Ryan’s comments about “shuffling a pack of 48 cards” to Rae was met with only a sideways smile as they both awaited Hirons’ report. Still, it changed things, and as long as Ryan was at it, he put Meité at the top for the first time all season. Long had played very well leading the line but was showing signs that he needed a bit of a slowdown. Ryan preferred Meité’s pace to Carroll’s power, though the latter still lurked at the end of the bench if he was needed to make an impact. Ryan gave what he thought was a rousing team talk about getting back on track and defending the home ground. The team then went through a somnambulant first thirty minutes, full of vigor and energy but with almost no creativity or practical application. The only saving grace was that the Potters were equally as bad. Nobody seemed to want to grab the game by the scruff of the neck and the first half of the match was truly dire. It went to halftime scoreless to the surprise of absolutely no one who had spent 45 minutes of their lives they could never get back while watching the contest. At half, Ryan simply told the players the truth. “If we get the ball in shooting positions, we just have to be better than we were in this half,” he said. “Some of us couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a bass fiddle out there so let’s see some better application in front of goal.” Of course, to finish you first have to get the ball into the correct position, which both teams had found to be as difficult as walking on a bed of hot coals. In some cases that was due to sound defensive play. In others, it was due to players having two left feet. The second half began and the difference in Reading’s energy was palpable. However, their play wasn’t a whole lot better, as Loum found himself in the referee’s book only two minutes after the restart. If anything, shots on target were harder to come by in the second half than they were in the first, so as the half wore on Ryan liked his team’s energy but was wondering where all their creativity had gone. Just before the 70-minute mark, Ryan made his move. Now he preferred Carroll’s power to Meité’s pace, and made the switch, also taking off Hollett for Femi Azeez. After 74 minutes, with the match still scoreless, Stoke’s Tom Edwards came off with what looked to be a thigh injury and was replaced by Jordan Robinson. With the change, Ryan also changed Reading’s tactic to get men forward. He didn’t want a goalless draw, and readily accepted the thought that he might lose due to the aggressive tactic instead of getting a point the team needed but which no one wanted. The fourth official held up his board, adding five minutes to the match. As he did, Tom McIntyre took a throw in near the corner flag in the attacking third, finding Azeez. He dropped the ball back to Jeff Hendrick and started a run that Hendrick saw coming. Immediately, the ball was back to the winger and then crossed for the leaping Carroll, who headed home with just over 89 minutes on the clock. Matija Šarkić leaned back into the Stoke goal, pounding his fists on the turf in frustration. The keeper hadn’t had much to do in the match and when the moment finally came, he got lobbed by Carroll. The way the Potters were misfiring in attack, there was no way back. Pennies from heaven, indeed. Stoke 0-1 Reading Carroll 89 # # #

The euphoria gathered from leading at the half was now giving way to a sense of determination. This was the second time we had led this team over the two legs and now it was a matter of somehow making that lead stick. We had had enough of being pushed around, and Hastings’ use of language in the changing room belied his tender years. He above all was tired of it – now boasting a second contusion on his leg right below the one he had picked up in the first leg. So to speak. Yet he wouldn’t come off. Against my better judgment, I let him go back out, his face a picture of determination. Barry Foley took the pitch for Tralee as a halftime substitute, in place of the young striker Cunningham, and we resumed play. We were waiting for them to come at us, and they did. Only it didn’t matter. They huffed and puffed, but we started the half holding them down. A long ball from the unfortunate McCormack was too far and Traynor gobbled it up, starting Kinsella back down the left. He laid a ball ahead to Place, and with one superb touch, he flicked it on to Flood. The striker’s run was perfectly timed down the left-hand channel, and he strode confidently into the box – before burying it past Cotter to his right. Two goals! Would wonders never cease? Flood seemed to explode with joy, sprinting to the corner flag – near which there were no fans at all – to celebrate. His fans were his teammates, though – the first game all season where we had scored two goals was certainly something to write home about. Fergus Foley then caught up with O’Brien, and laid him low with a thundering challenge that somehow didn’t get him booked or worse. Turnabout was now fair play and with a two-goal lead I started to wonder if, now that we had defined prosperity, we could actually stand it. It turned out we could. Foley fired over just past the stroke of the hour, and with Tralee now increasingly desperate to make something happen, it was time to think about protecting the lead. Except for Brennan, who went in heavily on Tralee’s Cleary to even the score in the crocked players department. Yet even as I was urging the players to think about defense, they would do nothing of the sort. Flood walked right in and stripped the ball off Gorman as the match ticked past seventy minutes, but missed wide to the left with his effort. It then dawned on me. They were having fun. The players were enjoying themselves. That wasn’t the way it was supposed to work as professionals, or so I had thought. Flood, who had been set up so superbly by Place earlier, now returned the favor. Off a long header by Brennan, he brought the ball to ground and found his strike partner up the middle, played onside by the now incredibly unfortunate McCormack, whose adjectives were getting worse by the minute after his own goal and various lapses in play. Place had no one near him and he too fired home eleven minutes from time to send us into dreamland. It was all coming out now. All the frustration, all the humiliation of 35 matches without a victory – it was all about to end. Except, it wasn’t. Just a few minutes later, McGee took a ball from Treacy and whipped a fourth past Cotter to the rapturous delight of his teammates and the surprised applause of the home faithful. Four. Four. Four. Four. For us. The final justice came when Stephen Nugent, who had gone into the book moments before our third goal, picked up a second yellow for hauling down Place by his shirt as the match ticked into injury time. Insult had been added to injury, but this time we were doing the insulting instead of absorbing it. Just this once. And we were staying up. The fans’ singing let us know. Kildare County 4 (Gary McCormack o/g 39; Fran Flood 56; Paul Place 79; Shane McGee 83) Tralee Dynamos 0 (Stephen Nugent s/o 90+2) A – 290, Station Road, Kildare Man of the Match – Bernard Brennan, Kildare County (8.3) ##

“Have a seat.” Ryan’s motion to the seat across from the manager’s desk was filled by the lissome shape of Jill Weatherby. She had asked for a bit of the manager’s time after the brouhaha with management, and Ryan was anxious both to keep the Evening Post onside as well as make himself abundantly clear to a person virtually everyone agreed was the club’s most influential reporter. “Thank you for making this time,” Weatherby started, and Ryan nodded. “We owe you at least that much for your work through the years.” Ryan’s tone was diplomatic and quiet – but not the kind tone those who had watched him grow up around the Mad Stad remembered hearing from him as a young adult. Something had changed, and it wasn’t hard to figure out what. “I apologize for offending you, because I know I did,” Weatherby began, but Ryan simply shook his head. “Jill, it wasn’t you,” he said, to the reporter’s surprise. “You didn’t write anything that I didn’t say. The problem I had was with the ownership and it would have surfaced anyway sooner or later. There’s no need to worry about protecting your source here, because if I know you, that’s what you’re concerned about as much as my feelings, and I don’t mean that in a negative way.” “Then how do you mean it?” she asked. “You’re a good, hard-working reporter who likes to get it right and also get it first,” Ryan said. “I watched my dad work for years around you and I’ll tell you, there’s a reason why he always called you first.” “No doubt because I wasn’t Stefano,” she said, referring to Rob’s longtime frenemy, Stefano Emiliani. “That’s got nothing to do with it,” Ryan said. “He knew the kind of person you are and he wanted you to be rewarded for playing fairly. And that’s why I took this time with you today, to tell you the same thing.” Weatherby looked puzzled. “I know how your father treated reporters who crossed him,” she said. “So, I guess I’m a little surprised.” “My father never aired out a reporter who didn’t show he deserved it by his actions,” Ryan replied. “Of course, if you gave him a reason to, the end result was usually not pretty, I’ll admit. But you didn’t cross me. You gave me an opportunity.” “To do what?” “I can’t say now because technically we aren’t off the record,” Ryan said. “But let’s just say that you writing what I said told me a lot of about what I need to know about life at this football club.” “Well, then I guess I’m happy to hear that,” Weatherby said. “I certainly didn’t expect this kind of a reception from you.” “I’m not my father,” Ryan answered. “I’m my father’s son, but we are two very different people.” # # #

Immediately, Curran went down with an injury, just four minutes into the match. Robert O’Donnell, their 28-year old midfielder, stood over him clucking like a mother hen. That was annoying. They then took the game to us. Kinsella headed a cross behind for an early corner, but we managed to scramble it clear without incident. That was better than we had done in Tralee. Curran, who had labored mightily to come back from his crocking, then headed the ball forward to Hastings, who in turn found Place in space beyond the center line. The 300-plus fans rose (those that weren’t already standing), perhaps out of surprise as much as anything else. Having not seen the team score on home turf under my direction, perhaps they were simply stunned. Place, though, managed to put the ball wide from twenty yards so the fans sat down with the natural order of things once again firmly established. Yet, we weren’t done. I was pleased to note it. The next player to miss was Treacy, who aimed for the top left corner of the Tralee goal but wound up hitting it in the general direction of Galway instead. Considering that’s on the opposite side of the country, the effort was disappointing even for him. But I’m being too harsh on the boys. They were pressing, and they were determined. Then O’Brien misfired, shortly after McGee went down in a heap after a hard challenge from young striker Anthony Cunningham. The visitors’ MO was pretty clear: play physically against a tired, beaten-up, injured opponent and beat them into submission. All that remained now was to see if we would surrender. From the point of view of possession, the answer was no. From the point of view of application, the jury was still out. Joe O’Brien flicked on Eric Kavanagh’s cross but Kinsella arrived before his keeper to nudge it behind for a corner in twenty minutes, meaning we now had a fairly entertaining match to watch. Finally, though, Tralee started to go after the already injured Hastings, which he didn’t appreciate. They also knew we were playing six under-20s in our starting eleven so the goal was to make us lose our composure as well. The young man took a hard whack across the shins from O’Brien’s sliding challenge and the boy rolled on the ground in genuine pain. Having gotten a look at his shins while he was dressing for the match, I could only guess how much it had hurt him. Yet he didn’t answer back, didn’t chest up to his tormentor, and didn’t raise a fuss. Instead, referee Graham Kelly went to his cards, which was the best outcome for us. Tralee then concentrated on football for awhile, winning three consecutive corners in the ensuing moments after O’Brien’s booking. Place was lucky not to wind up in the book after scything down Kavanagh, but he had certainly sent a message to them regarding rough play. Defender Gary McCormack was booked for a foul with less intent a few moments later, bringing down Fran Flood with a challenge that was more clumsy than malicious. Ten minutes from half, the teams had played each other to a standstill. O’Brien tried to play his way back into his manager’s good books with a speculative effort eight minutes from the break, but shot high. Traynor kicked the ball back upfield, and found Flood after McGee misplayed the ball, with central defender Chris Gorman cleaning up. His first touch was poor and the ball dribbled to the left, where McCormack found it under pressure from Flood. He back-passed to keeper Timmy Cotter, and his placement was perfect. He found the right corner of Cotter’s goal for a beautifully struck own goal that got us into the lead eight minutes from the break. As the halftime whistle went, we hadn’t broken through. But our opponents had, on our behalf. ##

ROYALS OWNERSHIP ADMONISHES RIDGWAY By Jill Weatherby Exclusive to the Evening Post Reading manager Ryan Ridgway’s comments about the size of his Royals squad have drawn a rebuke from team ownership based in China. While not expressing outright dissatisfaction with the ownership of Dai Yongge’s group, Ridgway noted that with three u-21 internationals away from the team before Saturday’s matchup with Stoke City, every uninjured senior squad player except third-choice goalkeeper Dean Bouzanis was in the eighteen for the Potters’ visit. “Look, that’s part of the problem we have,” Ridgway said. “When you have financial difficulties, difficult choices have to be made and managers have to abide by those changes. The expectations, not surprisingly, remain the same.” Upon receipt of Ridgway’s comments, Yongge’s management group, Renhe Commercial Holdings, took the very unusual step of sending a reply to this reporter from its base in Beijing. It read as follows: “He might take a flying leap at my arse,” Ryan snapped, in the vilest mood anyone around him could remember. “I did not question their ambition,” he said in the next day’s staff meeting. He was preaching to the choir, but the mood in the room was tense. “We know you didn’t,” Rae said. “We know you didn’t.” Another long silence followed. “So,” Rae asked in a quiet voice, “what are you going to say to them?” Ryan knew that his own future, and those of everyone in the room, might depend on his answer. Except for one, and he sat in the corner, saying nothing. “Dad?” Ryan asked, and Rob shifted slightly on the sofa in the corner of Ryan’s office. “I know how I’d answer this,” he finally said. “But it’s your club.” “And I’m your son,” Ryan said, knowing intuitively what was on his father's mind and finally cracking a smile for the first time all day. “Well, I think you know,” Rae said to Rob, “but would you care to enlighten the rest of us?” Rob smiled. “This is your club,” he said to Ryan, “but honestly, not everyone here knows that. I think it’s time you told them.” Rae knew immediately what Rob meant, and what the goal of any response was likely to be. He also wondered if he would be seeing a P45 in his morning mail if it didn’t work. Rob hadn't backed down from anyone, though. Not The Supporters when they tried to kill his wife. Not Richmond. Not Arsene Wenger at the height of his mind games. Not Rafa Benitez. Not Avram Grant at Chelsea, Coppell at United, or any of them. Show weakness, Rob knew, and you are through. So it was that Ryan faced a larger-than-usual press gathering that afternoon. “I just want to start by addressing the statement from the ownership group today, and then I’ll take questions,” Ryan said, raising eyebrows all over the room. This didn't sound like a football manager talking, it sounded like a politician, and Weatherby looked at him with surprise. “I want the supporters of this club to know that regardless of how any comments I make to the press are construed or misconstrued, placing the most competitive team I possibly can on the pitch each and every week is my ultimate objective,” he said. “I did not in any way insinuate that the ownership group lacked ambition and I acknowledge that they have been very good to me as I have strengthened the management side of our football operation. I thank them for it. But I also want to make abundantly clear that I didn’t start this and as such I reject any need for ‘admonishment’, as Jill put it in her headline.” At that, Weatherby’s face turned red. “As long as I am here, there will never be a time when I do not advocate for what I feel is the best course of action for this football club,” he went on. “I am an extension of our supporters in that regard, and though I will occasionally make decisions they do not like, I will never lose sight of the fact that I represent them and their ambitions as much as I represent myself and my own ambitions.” He had done it. Ryan had gone over Dai’s head and straight to the supporters. It was very much a Rob Ridgway-like move and the older manager hadn’t had to say a word. # # #

Kildare County v Tralee Dynamos – First Division Relegation Playoff, Second Leg The night before had been sleepless. For me, it all came down to one game. The players have done all they can do. Their abilities, to be honest, are sharply limited. I don’t think, in my heart of hearts, that there’s a one of them who could command a starting place on any other First Division team. Yet as I lay awake thinking about it before sunrise, there wasn’t a one of them that I’d now trade. They struggled through ninety minutes in Tralee and were now preparing to do the same at home. Sore muscles, banged-up knees and protesting bodies were being asked for ninety more minutes during which something would have to give. 35 matches is a hell of a long time to go without winning. Yet that was where we stood – all 33 league matches, our Cup match and the first leg at Tralee had ended in defeat or draw. Everyone knew that and of course we all knew what was at stake. So, it was hardly worth dwelling upon. Yet, in the semi-darkness of my hotel room, that was just what I was doing. It’s what managers do, and I suppose it’s why they probably die young. Too, Nola’s words were rattling around inside my head and occasionally would bounce against one of my brain cells, giving me a surprisingly coherent thought from time to time. I wanted to sleep. That was not going to happen. Then there was the matter of getting through a day before the big evening kickoff. I started the morning with a brisk run. Didn’t finish it with a brisk run, because I’m a bit more out of condition than I had previously thought, but you can’t have everything. I wound up at the stadium, and eventually decided to do some stairs. Up and down I went. Once, twice … okay, twice was plenty. Chest heaving, I headed into the shower to kill another ten minutes. By the time I was done, I was on my second set of clothes for the day, was ravenously hungry, was debilitatingly tired, and it was only 9:00. That was annoying. Talking to Nakov took another half hour that seemed like two. I’ve finally figured out who he reminds me of when he talks – he sounds like Heavy Weapons Guy from the video game ‘Team Fortress’. He talked about ticket sales and finance, and all I could think of as he spoke was a huge, ham-fisted Russian with a machine gun roaring ‘I am c-r-r-r-r-edit to team!’ It made me smile, but I tried to make sure the smile was not at an odd time. I didn’t want to arouse suspicion. He still scares me. Then, since there was no training, I closed my office door to make it look like I was working. There, while nursing a brand-new groin strain earned on the steps, I took a nap. That was the most constructive thing I did all day. ## We had one thing going for us as we headed out for warm-ups. There were fans who actually had to stand. Station Road, despite being less than ten years old, was still built with only 250 seats in a listed capacity of 2,500. And all the seats were full. The overflow, if you will, had to go to terraces, and even though the place was still less than twenty percent full, it was nice to see all the seats taken by paying customers. However, since our average ticket price is just over €10, the extra income to Nakov would only be about €2,000 more. Considering that Nakov had rescued the club from administration or worse in September, it would all add up. The club was over €300,000 in the hole when he bought it, and gave it a loan of €425,000 as his first order of business, repayable over 25 years. That means the princely sum of €3,002 per month comes right off the top to make the loan payment. So maybe €2,000 more in profit would be a big deal after all. Still, though, chairmen count beans. It’s what they do. I was just happy to see warm bodies in the stands. Figuratively speaking, that is. It was a coldish night. A cold rain began to fall as the teams left the pitch for final instructions. While I was certain the other dressing room was filled with talk about realizing dreams and leaving it all on the pitch, my moment of brilliance was still ahead. The players gathered in a circle as I struggled to find something to say. After a day that had been filled with time to think of something, when it was time for actual words it wasn’t so easy. Finally, I took a deep breath and looked at Hastings, who was closest to me. “Play hard for each other no matter what happens,” I said. “You can do this, I know you can do this, but remember one thing. Tonight, if we die, we die together.” ##

“You do know, don’t you, that you’ve gone over two matches without scoring?” “Yes, Colin, I am aware of that. And in anticipation of your next question, I also know that you cannot win a game unless you score.” “Touché,” the reporter said, just a hint of a smile crossing his face. That seemed like odd behavior from him so Ryan figured there was something he probably wanted. The team’s media availability prior to their home match against Stoke wasn’t supposed to be a tempestuous affair, but Ryan wasn’t taking anything for granted. “Are you concerned that your options are limited with international play this weekend?” That was a much better question, and it was one Ryan had to tread carefully to answer. Tetek, Casadei and Mbengue were all off with their respective u-21 teams and with four players also out injured, options were getting pretty thin for substitutes. Rahman would still miss about a month after suffering an intensely painful hernia in training the day before the Sheffield United match, and Nesta Guinness-Walker was still a week or two away from his twisted ankle from the Carabao Cup match against Cardiff. With defenders Scott Dann (torn hamstring, out 5-6 months) and Liam Moore (cruciate, out 6-12 weeks) both on the shelf with long-term ailments, that meant Ryan was down seven first-team players for the match. It also meant that in the current senior squad, every healthy body except Dean Bouzanis was either in the team or listed as a substitute. So, Ryan had to be careful how he answered the question. If he complained, he would put pressure on upper management and regardless of how he felt about Dai, that wouldn’t be wise. Yet if he said he wasn’t concerned, Anderson would question his sanity. “The fixture list is the fixture list,” he finally explained. “I’m certainly pleased that we have three u-21 internationals here, two of them under our own contracts, and they deserve to play for their countries because they’ve all done well here. When they get back we’ll have better numbers.” “But you’re thin already.” That wasn’t Anderson. It was Weatherby, which wasn’t good. “For this match, yes, we are,” he said. “Look, that’s part of the problem we have. When you have financial difficulties, difficult choices have to be made and managers have to abide by those changes. The expectations, not surprisingly, remain the same.” Now Ryan noticed that everyone in the room was writing, which also wasn’t good but which was also unavoidable. “Do you wish you had more players to work with?” Weatherby was zeroing in. “Every manager wishes he had more players,” Ryan said. “But managers also have to be realistic.” He wondered what the next day’s headlines would bring. # #

The coach ride home was long, but the beverages I bought for the journey made it seem a little sweeter. The mood was subdued. We did feel that we should have won, but there’s really not much we can do about it except figure out how to get it right next time – and we have to. Curran had been excellent for about half the match, Place had done a nice job in his role, and we had defended reasonably well except for not getting the set piece covered – but for some reason, we don’t believe that we can close out a match. Maybe it’s because we haven’t done so in over thirty tries, but I could be wrong about that. We got back home at about midnight and I crawled into bed in my hotel room trying to figure out a way to generate some optimism in this team. I was starting to like the town, and the people. Three draws didn’t hurt, either, but we needed a spark. The next day, I got it. Nakov came to my little office at the stadium with a piece of welcome news. “They are buying tickets,” he announced, with a smile that I had not yet seen from the chairman, and in a tone of voice Einstein might have used when he first said “E=mc²!” But then, we had not had positive financial news before. “Really?” I asked, with a surprise that I had hoped I wouldn’t feel. “Yes,” he said. “Over two hundred now.” That was great. I had hoped we could draw a little bit and since the traveling support from Tralee was not likely to be large, it seemed to me that a good home gate was necessary for a number of reasons. A sort of guerilla campaign of flyers and leaflets around town asking the people of Newbridge to get behind the team seemed to be paying off. The low attendance figures that plague the Irish leagues are a source of concern for a number of teams, but not so much for us as a fully amateur club. We pay expenses of our players and that’s it – they have jobs and careers just like I do. Or at least like I think I do. After the work day I went to Coffy’s to ponder my own future. If we are fortunate enough to win the second leg of the match and stay in the First Division, I have a decision to make, assuming Nakov wants to keep me on. I don’t think there’s much doubt that we are playing better in recent weeks – we’ve had three draws and two losses in my time in charge – but these things are far from certain. He can do what he wants, Nakov. And if he keeps me, and if I decide to stay, I have to figure out how I am going to survive. There’s no way I can commute to and from Blackpool for an entire season. My holiday leave is about gone, and if I’m to stay in the position I am probably going to have to find a job in Newbridge. I’ve got a lot on my mind. And I guess it’s starting to show. Even Nola noticed while she was serving me this evening. “Matt,” she said, now secure enough to call me by my Christian name, “you should be a lot happier than you appear. What is wrong?” So I told her. In between stops to her other tables and flirtations with about half the eligible men in Newbridge, I got the whole story out. “You need someone to talk to,” she finally said, making a sage if obvious statement. “Meh.” “What?” she asked, as she placed another mug of Guinness in front of me. “You think you’re going to be the strong silent type about moving here and about changing your life for a job that pays you nothing?” I looked at her. “Well, to be honest you’re the only one who has said anything to me,” I said. “So I really haven’t thought much about it.” “What about your family?” “Parents are both gone and I was an only child,” I said. “No family that I’m really close to.” “So, you do feel like you’re alone.” “Sure,” I said. “And I know you’ve got work to do so I won’t take up your time.” “Look around you, Matt,” she said, with a surprisingly kind voice. “You’ve a few people in this pub who wouldn’t mind talking with you, you’re the manager of their club, and yet you won’t even look at them. These are nice people. They’re good people. Why don’t you try it?” “What, just walk up and stick out my hand and say ‘Hi, my name is Matt’, and expect them to talk to me?” “People have tried it,” she smiled, before heading off to visit with her real friends. I took a deep pull from my glass and sighed. I headed to the bar, and sat there for a bit. Not surprisingly, no one said a word to me. I caught Nola’s eye and gave her a half-smile. ##

It was a case where no team talk was necessary. The players’ spirits were fiercely high and we clearly knew what we had to do in the second half. Tralee made two substitutions to start the half, trying to inject some life into their game. They assumed a much more offensive shape as the half began and immediately put us under pressure. You’d have expected that, I guess. The frighteningly young Willo Byrne was one of the substitutions for the Dynamos and he immediately made his presence felt. I’d have thought Byrne’s biggest fear on the park would have been diaper rash, but instead it soon appeared that the boy had a larger problem with balance. He couldn’t stay on his feet, and it would have been so funny if it weren’t so annoying. He went to ground here. He went to ground there. He went to ground everywhere, especially in the penalty area when Brennan simply looked at him. I wondered if there was some sort of laser device in my defender’s eyes that allowed him to fell the boy with such ease, but now the home fans were clamoring for a penalty they didn’t receive. When on his feet, the lad wasn’t half bad, nodding a cross just wide from full back Stephen Nugent. They were starting to assert themselves, though, and that wasn’t good. Now it was Robert O’Donnell coming in to cross the ball, and Hastings stuck his noggin in there to head it behind for a corner. There was a sense of inevitability to what was about to happen, but the players kept their chins up and their heads in the game. Killian Treacy took the corner for them, and veteran defender Chris Gorman was there. He rose confidently and powered home in 65 minutes to erase our lead and get them level. I stood silently, having parked myself on the touchline to kick every ball with my players. I clapped my hands a few times and gave the players a confident nod. I sure didn’t feel that confidence but I was hoping they couldn’t see that. They didn’t. Horgan was first to the attack for us, and the striker powered an immediate response at Kelly. The keeper made the save and the rebound was cleared behind. So we still had spirit, anyway. Young Byrne still had a few things to say, though, with a powerful effort that found its way wide ten minutes from time and the home team had a second penalty shout turned down when Fergus Foley buried the boy while the two contested a header right in front of our six-yard box. With a few minutes to go, Murray and Blaise O’Brien came on to kill a little time and give us two sets of fresh legs. That was all they were, though – and despite all we had done, we still could not win. How about one game for all the marbles? Tralee Dynamos 1 (Christopher Gorman 65) Kildare County 1 (Gordon Curran 19) A – 370, Togher Road, Tralee Man of the Match – Killian Treacy, Tralee Dynamos (7.6) Best I Had – Paul Place (7.4) ##