ManUtd1

The draw in Nyon is a fart. No, I ddn't mis-speak. I meant every word. We are first out of the hopper and will face Ole Gunnar Solskjaer's United.

You'll Have To Speak Up, I'm Wearing A Towel December 2036 - Season Review Though we have undoubtedly turned a corner in reaching the knockout stages of the Champions League for the first time, there are warning signs. We were eliminated from the Davit Kipiani Cup at the first asking -- the Second Round. Our reserves fell in the Third Round, and then collapsed at the end of the Erovnuli Liga 2 campaign, ceding the title to Aragvi on Matchday 36. Our 27-man senior squad is as strong as it has ever been. But we lack the depth we once had. Something we shall have to remedy. One possible problem? We are losing 6 senior members of the squad, including 4 starters. Kamau threw a fit, demanding a transfer to Ipswich Town (of all places). Our 2 year-loans for Noah, Talla and Azong are expiring; I sought to extend them, but their parents clubs would not even consider it. From the 2nd XI, Dieu's loan is also expiring, with Zura "Cheech" Chighladze declining to sign a new deal after 8 years at the Arsen in favor of a move to Sevilla. 4 arrivals are due to arrive in January, including Achille Awoa, who will step directly into the 1st XI to replace Kamau. (An additional 3 players are slotted to join in the summer transfer window.) But I digress. "Tomorrow is another day," wise words once conveyed to me by my father. We'll assess the squad ahead of the Cup of Nations in a few weeks' time. For now, let's simply bask in what we did accomplish. A campaign unlike any other for Gareji, and for any Georgian club in the modern era. A European final in Dublin. 35 wins from 36 in the Erovnuli Liga. All while playing attractive, attacking football and setting goalscoring records domestically and on the continent. Not bad for a bunch of kids from rural Georgia. Now, it's off to The Brother for a large Rezo, to honor my father's memory. It's what he would have wanted. Goals for 2037: Win the lot, domestically. Not embarrass ourselves in the 2036/37 Champions League knockout rounds. Make a run at the 2037 Cup of Nations. Qualify for the Champions League knockout rounds in 2037/38.

December 2046 - Champions League, Group Stage (Matchday 6). We greet the Austrians the only way we know how -- with a goal in the 1st minute. A metaphorical fist to the jaw. Having already scored a record number of goals for the Erovnuli Liga, we claim the same feat in the Champions League. But, more importantly, passage has been secured to the Champions League knockout rounds for the 1st time in club history. The first Georgian club to do so.

Sadly, I wouldn't expect much from the other Israeli clubs. So frustrating when you're trying to raise your national coefficient...

Ooh...quite the tidbit I wasn't expecting, at least not at this stage of the save. Fabrika is producing the goods.

November 2036 - Champions League, Group Stage (Matchday 5). Olympiakos prove no match for our aggression. We're so close to the knockout rounds, we can taste it. Barcelona hammer Hartburg, meaning that we are three points clear with a 6-1 advantage on the head-to-head tiebreaker. We don't let this slip, lads...

Torpedo Kutaisi's reserves are looking to upstage ours, as they not only reach the Davit Kipiani Cup final, they beat Torpedo's first team in the semis. Not bad for a team in the 3rd tier, looking to promote...

It's enough to drive one to drink...

The non EU rules in Italy drive me nuts! I feel your pain...

As an aside, Awoa picked up a new PPM at Canon Yaounde -- likes to beat offside trap. Perfect for a forward with his ability to read the game... And, for a libero in my systems, given that I look for every possible reason to get them higher up the pitch. January can't come soon enough.

November 2036 - Cup of Nations Qualifying. The last matches with Cameroon ahead of the Cup of Nations. The last time we will see Awoa before his official unveiling in Sagarejo in 2 months' time. We've already qualified, so this is little more than a chance to get out of town -- to get away from the constant reminders of my father's passing. I drive by The Brothel every day. And I can't see a potato without wondering, is today the day I die? I tell myself the results don't matter. Only, they do. Recognizing that realization is like kindling in my soul -- a rejuvenation. A new sense of purpose, perhaps. I can no longer dwell on the past. It is time to look to the future. With only a few weeks left in the campaign, we are at a critical juncture in Europe -- away to Olympiakos, and then the final match of the year in Tbilisi against the Austrians. All to play for.

A record-breaking crowd was on hand for the Barcelona match, generating record gate receipts. Wish we'd performed to a higher standard, mind...

That first league title took a while!

7 points, 9 games. Every one of them a proverbial six-pointer...

October/November 2036 - Champions League, Group Stage (Matchdays 3-4). I don't really know what I expected at my father's funeral. It isn't like I knew him all that well, these last few years. I mean, I know he was in a strange, futuristic cult, but I didn't expect a funeral with so much beeping. At the end of it all, his lawyer beckons me closer. The only item in my father's estate that wasn't left to some self-styled prophet living in a cave in the Turkish hinterlands is a painting he apparently made of a solitary house, in a non-descript countryside somewhere. A lone tree dominating a nearby hill. Thunderclouds looming above the distant mountains. I can't tell if it is sad or poetic. Perhaps both. Something about it speaks to me, though I can't say exactly it what it is. It reminds me of my childhood for some reason. A childhood I don't really remember. Against the Catalans at the Camp Nou, Mat is in rare form. No, not shouting or aggressive. Oddly passive. Watching me from the shadows of the tunnel instead of joining me in the technical area. Is he waiting for me to do...something? Back at the hotel, I return to our shared suite to find him brandishing a knife. Silent. Staring out into the night. When I wake, he is gone. But the knife is beneath my pillow. And he isn't on the flight home. Returning to our shared, dilapidated house on Paper Street, I find him in a manic state. Insisting that we move. "Fine," I tell him. We could use a change of scenery.

October 2036 - World Cup Qualifying. A somber mood hangs in the air as we kick off the Group Stage qualifiers for South Africa 2038. I can hardly focus as we stumble to a draw away to Guinea and narrowly defeat Zimbabwe back in Yaounde. Mat tries to lighten the mood, but at times I don't even notice his presence.

Nothing could prepare me for this moment. I got the call last night. My father was taken to the hospital by ambulance, having choked on a particularly large piece of potato. They tried everything. But they couldn't bring him back. He's gone. Over and over in my mind, I can only think one thing. My soup. My soup has killed my father. It's only after a long conversation with Mat that I realize I'm wrong. The soup is not to blame. I am. I... I have killed my father.

As if answering my prayers, my name featuring prominently at The Brothel is doing what years of therapy could not -- bring my father and I closer. Slowly but surely he is opening up to me. I'm seeing a side to him I never knew existed. He's also hinted that there are things about my past that I need to know. To understand. About who I am. Where I come from. Though for the life of me I can't figure out what he could possibly know about Mat. As far as I know they've never met. I've certainly never introduced them.

Mat is all excited. The Brothel down the street has decided to name a popular menu item after me. No, no. It's not what you think. It isn't that kind of establishment. It's a local all-you-can-eat soup restaurant. Very high class. All fancy, like. Only... A potato soup? That's terrible. "The Rezo" should be majestic. Mysterious. Not... Whatever this is. Bland, overly large chunks of potato and something that resembles boiled broccoli. It tastes like the inside of my shoe. The restaurant owner claims it is to honor "a glorious night at the Aviva" but I think he's secretly mocking me. The ****. I'm about to post a lengthy negative review on Yelp when my phone buzzes. It's a text from my father... As I read through, I realize that, for the first time in my life, he seems to be proud of me. I've "made it," in his eyes. He's never understood me, and doesn't understand football. But being able to order up a "Rezo" at The Brothel, with all his friends? This... This he understands. Maybe it isn't too late, after all. Maybe there is a chance to finally connect after all these years.

October 2036 - Champions League, Group Stage (Matchday 2). I realize upon arriving in Austria -- which is not, contrary to Mat's loudly-voiced theory, "Australia's baby daddy" -- that of the 4 teams in our Group, only Barcelona is able to host Champions League matches at their home stadium. The rest of us are forced to play elsewhere to keep the suits at UEFA happy. Interesting? Maybe. Maybe not. After seeing some of the Austrian women in attendance, though, I am interested to learn more about Mat's theory. No, no. Don't make that face. I've always had a keen interest in...err...science.

September 2036 - Youth Intake. As the old Georgian saying goes, "the promise of June gives way to the reality of September." Or maybe that's a Dave Matthews song. I get confused easily between the two. Regardless, the youth intake looks less promising than what was promised. Ironically. Tornike Meladze, Lasha Rekhviashvili and Omar Makhatadze are the only three players who look to have the quality and potential to one done join the senior squad. Mat thinks I'm being too harsh on the other lads, but his judgment has been in question since the day he convinced the kitchen staff at Fabrika to serve sriracha oatmeal raisin hummus at dinner.

September 2036 - Champions League, Group Stage (Matchday 1). All the promise. All the hype. None of it means anything if we don't produce on the pitch. So when we kick off the Champions League Group Stage, our nerves are raw. Until Toroshelidze buries one less than a minute in...and Azong heads home our second less than 2 minutes in...and Dvali makes it 3 in the 5th minute. For good measure, Azong makes it 4 in the 9th. The presence of women and children does nothing to temper our thirst for Grecian blood. We are ruthless. We will not be denied. (After a while, we feel bad enough to let our guests in on the scoring. There can't be any other explanation for the soft 3 goals we conceded, can there?)