ManUtd1

Achille Awoa, Danny Roberts Challenge - 2040 Overview What a campaign for Achille Awoa -- the club's POTY yet again, 32 goals to his name (2 behind Thierry Kameni), and an average rating across all competitions of 8.23. Utterly absurd. All told, 55 appearances and 39 goals for club and country -- that's a campaign in any league. He's more than one quarter of the way to 1000 appearances -- while the goalscoring mark is almost certainly a bridge too far for a libero, he's doing quite well. If we can get a viable player with a flat bullet throw, we should be able to pump those goals up a little bit, too. Per usual, I've included Kameni and Ngongang. There remains no question whatsover that they'll reach the Appearances mark, with Kameni cracking away at the Goals tally. If we had him on free kicks and penalties, it probably wouldn't hurt...but that would take away from Awoa, which isn't going to happen.

It Is Not The Mountain We Conquer But Ourselves December 2040 - Season Review A year that will never be rivaled, domestically. We find ourselves in a unique position -- strong enough to compete in Europe, and miles ahead of the domestic competition who are striving to catch us. At some point, the gap between us and our domestic rivals will narrow. Scoring 206 league goals -- a record we'll never come close to matching. Conceding a record 12 goals? Again, a feat we are unlikely to match year after year. Add in our 4-1 annihilation of Champions League winners Liverpool on Matchday 4 of the Group Stage -- and the 2nd XI's 12-nil curbstomping of Dinamo Batumi in the Davit Kipiani Cup final -- it is a campaign for the history books. My closest friend has left me, though. Perhaps to never return. As I walk through our empty house, I notice that he has not disappeared from my father's painting...he's still standing amongst the trees, brandishing a knife, staring intently at the house. Once, I found that alarming. Now, it brings a smile to my face...something to remember him by. Goals for 2041: Win the lot, domestically. Make a run in the 2040/41 Champions League knockout rounds. Qualify for the Champions League knockout rounds in 2041/42.

December 2040. For all the stress and anxiety, the campaign ends on a high note. At first I didn't dare fall asleep but there is only so long one can go without a good night's rest. Between the shackles on my bed and a solid layer of sand throughout my room in our house, I can be sure that when I do fall asleep, I stay asleep. Or, to put it more simply -- that Mat doesn't wander while I sleep. Two weeks pass without a whisper from him or his minions. The fire tore through Oostende, causing untold property damage though there were no casualties (thankfully). No one knows of my -- our -- role in the fire. Thankfully. At the conclusion of a campaign unlike any other, I find myself -- for the first time in as long as I can remember, 1000 matches into my managerial career -- more lonely than I have ever been. For even I have to admit that, at times, I miss his presence. His voice. His passion.

November 2040 (continued). Ahead of the Oostende trip, I take the major step of hiring an Assistant Manager. An actual Assistant Manager. The Board pass no judgment over my relinquishment of a second paycheck. They were comfortable with the façade, and do not want to ask any questions. I can't explain why, but for the full 90 minutes at the Diaz Arena, I wait for the penny to drop. For Mat to reveal his masterplan. Only, at the final whistle nothing has happened. I relax, safe in the knowledge that whatever he had planned, it hasn't gone off. And that with a 5-nil win we still are in control of our own destiny for seeding in the knockout rounds. That is, until I wake up bound to a chair in my hotel room, Mat sitting on my lap, a gun in my mouth as we look out across what passes for the Oostende skyline. With a barrel between your teeth, you can only speak in vowels. For a moment, I forget about Mat's plan, and wonder about how clean this gun is before grunting. Mat removes the gun from my mouth and checks his watch, before standing up to walk back over to the window, staring out intently. "It's getting exciting now, Rezo." "You don't have to do this, Mat," "You never understood, did you? In any great struggle, there will be casualties. Wouldn't that be implicit in the name, Project Mayhem?" "**** your struggle. I want out." Mat just laughs. "You want out?" "I quit." "Not an option, for the most obvious of reasons." Mat checks his watch again. "Two minutes, Rezo." As time ticks past, Mat returns to sit on my lap. Laughing softly at a joke only he hears. "You never understood, Rezo, this is the only way." "The only way to...what exactly?" "To stop UEFA, Rezo. They have to pay for what they've done." As time ticks away, Mat gestures towards the window. I can see a growing light on the skyline. Fire. Growing. "Look at what we've accomplished." "What, exactly, have you accomplished, Mat? You're...setting fire to a Belgian city, to get back at UEFA? How does that even make sense?" "I haven't done anything, Rezo. You have. Look at the skyline. Tell me what you see." Staring out the window, it hits me. I look around the room. My briefcase is missing. I know this, because Mat knows this. "The fire is at the stadium, isn't it, Mat?" A deep laugh. A nod. Both of which confirm my suspicions. Mat stands. Triumphant. Silhouetted by the growing light in the window. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone to check his messages. Realization dawns. The restraints no longer present, I leap for him, knocking him aside, the gun falling to the floor. We both scramble, but I reach it first, turning to fire. Two shots, at point blank range. The bullets pass straight through him. Mat just laughs maniacally. "You're just a figment of my imagination," I shout with barely controlled rage. Mat cocks an eyebrow. "**** that. Maybe you're a figment of my imagination." There is no way out. Mat chuckles again. "You need me, Rezo." "No I don't. I thank you, I really do. But I don't need you anymore." "Look, Rezo. I can be selfish. I know that. I'm not...blind, to my own failings." I shake my head. This has to end. "From now on--" "From now on, Rezo, no more running off without you. From here on out, we do it together." Words fail me. I cannot speak. "I'm doing this for us, Rezo." There's only one option. I put the gun in my mouth. A look of alarm passes over Mat's face. "What are you doing, Rezo?" "This ends tonight, Mat." "Why do you want to do that? Why do you want to put the gun in your mouth?" "Not my mouth, Mat. Our mouth." Mat pauses, cocking his head to the side. "This is...interesting." Mat smiles. He calmly walks towards me. He can see the look of determination in my eyes. "It isn't that simple, though, is it, Rezo?" Mat chuckles, again. Softly. Growing louder as I realize my mouth is empty. The gun is in his hand. I look up, to meet his eyes. He only winks, before speaking softly as he walks past me towards the door into the hallway. Though he whispers, I hear every word. "Mark my words, Rezo. Soon comes the day all shall be free. Even you, and even me. Soon comes the day all shall die. Surely you, but never I." The last words ring in my ears as the door closes behind him and the town of Oostende burns in the distance. He has left me. Even at this moment, I know it. But...for how long?

November 2040 - Cup of Nations Qualifying. Since we have already qualified for Nigeria 2041, the matches this month are little more than glorified friendlies. Meaning I have nothing to distract me. At the recently opened branch of The Brothel in Yaounde, I order the clam chowder before I get a knowing wink from the cashier. I sigh. "Clean food, please." The cashier nods. "In that case, sir, may I advise against the clam chowder?" "Crab bisque?" She just shakes her head. "Hard pass on the bisque, sir."

November 2040. I haven't seen Mat since that night in Liverpool. But I can sense his presence. Always lurking. I dare not sleep. Instead, I make my way methodically through my past phone calls, trying to figure out his plan. But every call ends the same -- with evasiveness. Tonight is but one example. I reach a number, and a man answers in French. "Listen...something, something terrible is going to happen." "Very good, sir." "What?" "Don't worry about us, sir. We're solid." "Now, wait...there's been a mix-up. Everything has changed." "You told me you'd say that, sir." "The plan is off." "You told me you'd say that, too." "Did I tell you I'd call you a ****, too?" "Well, sir, you said you might." Mat has thought of everything. At least we avenged our loss in England -- my madness, twinning with Mat's, to create a tactical masterclass.

A slight break from the narrative unfolding (after 9 months of build-up)... Mauricio Fernandez joins the senior squad on his 18th birthday -- I once intended to play him as an inverted wingback, but upon further reflection have been training him as a WCB. After 2-odd years "on trial" with our U19s, it's time for him to shine. He'll join the 2nd XI immediately. Davit Mchedlishvili also joined the 2nd XI recently -- promoted after Obama left the club at the end of the summer transfer window. While Mchedlishvili has an attacking profile, I am now planning to play him as a BWM in our tactics. I want this player to be hyper-attacking (notwithstanding the role), and I'm hoping he can develop a long throw in due course -- that is the last thing I can probably do to improve Awoa's goalscoring tally.

October 2040 (continued). Arriving in Liverpool ahead of the match against Roberto Martinez's high flying side, I still haven't seen Mat since the night of the Kobenhavn match. I can't sleep. The sounds of the hotel are all wrong, somehow. At 2am, I finally give up on trying to sleep and go in search of a bite to eat. The hallways are empty. The front desk, deserted. Not a soul to be seen in the restaurant, either. Each step, accompanied by a sense of deja vu. Everywhere I go, I feel like I've been here before. I poke my head into the kitchen, and there's a group of staff -- finally, someone other than myself -- standing in a circle, chanting softly. From behind me, a voice. "Welcome back, sir." I turn to see a man I can only assume is the bartender. Wearing a neck brace, his nose a smashed mess. Bruised. "How have you been, sir?" Confusion reigns. "...you...you know me?" "Is this a test, sir?" Confusion, now mixed with a rising alarm. "Yes... Yes... It's a test." "You were in here last Sunday night." "What?" The bartender just shakes his head slowly. "You were standing right where you are now, asking how good security was down at Anfield. It's tight as a drum. You'd have better luck in Oostende, it seems." "Who do you think I am?" The bartender just chuckles. "Is this part of the test, sir?" I nod, slowly. He raises his right hand, slowly, showing me a scar on the back of his hand. "You're the one who did this to me, sir. You're Matsil Chdilidze." Heart pounding, I feel back to my room. Fast as my feet can carry me. I pull out my cell phone. Scrolling through to find her number. Tamar, from Starbucks all those years ago. The phone rings, my head spinning. She answers. I recognize her voice immediately...as if I could erase it from my memory. "Tamar, it's...it's me. Have we... Have we ever, you know... had... you know." "What kind of stupid question is that, after all these years?!" "Stupid because the answer is yes, or because the answer is no?!" "Is this a trick?" "Will you just answer me, Tamar, for urCristiano's sake?" "You mean, you want to know if I think we were making love, or if it was something meaningless?" "We...we did make love...?" "If that's what you're calling it." "Please just answer the question, Tamar!!!" "You **** me, then snub me. You love me, you hate me. You show me your sensitive side, then you turn into a total ****! Is that a pretty good accurate description of our "relationship," Mat?!" "What did you say...?" "What is wrong with you?!" "Say my name." "What...?!" "Say my name! What's my name!" "Mat Chdilidze, you ****ing freak. What's going on?! You know what, I'm done. Goodbye." "Tamar, no! Wait!" The call disconnects. And suddenly I realize I'm not alone in my darkened room. The light from my cell, throwing shadows across the room. Mat sits in a chair by the window. "6 academies across Georgia, Rezo." "What's this all about, Mat?!" "And we're definitely filling a void in rural West Africa." "Why do people think I'm you?" "You broke your promise. You talked to her about me." "Why do people think I'm Mat Chdilidze?!" "Why did you do that, Rezo?" "Answer me, Mat." "Why do people think anything?" "I don't know! Tell me!" Mat just shakes his head in disgust, irritated. "People think that you're me, because you and I happen to share the same body." A hammer blow to the side of the head. I can barely speak. "What...?" "Is this really news to you?" "Mat, what are you talking about...?" "Sometimes I control it, and you imagine yourself watching me... And, sometimes you control it. You can see me and hear me, but no one else can. But when you fall asleep, I do thinks without you. I go places without you. I get things done." I can hardly breath and collapse onto the bed. Mat stands. "There. Are you happy? I asked for one thing from you, Rezo, one simple promise. Now look what you've done!" "This isn't possible..." "We're going to have to do something about Tamar..." I can only shake my head in disbelief. "What... What are you saying, Mat?" "It's okay. We're okay. A little codependent, sure, but..." "No! This isn't... We... We were around other people, together, both of us." "You never talked to me in front of anyone else." "Wrong...wrong...what about Fabrika...the Board...the players...?" "What about them? They just think you're eccentric." "You took me to the house, on Paper Street?" "The house is rented in your name, Rezo." "You have a job, you receive a paycheck!" "Again, the Board just thinks you're eccentric. Wanted to get paid under the table. I work while you sleep." "What about...what about Tamar?" "What about Tamar, Rezo?" "She...you...you were ****ing her." "Yeah, well... Technically no." I can't wrap my head around it. I stand, but the rush of blood overwhelms me. I fall to the floor, the world going hazy. All I can hear before I black out is Mat's low, barbed chuckle." I wake at 8:35 am. I'm late for the team breakfast. There's no sign of Mat. I rush out the door, downstairs to find the lads waiting for me. They chuckle at my disheveled state as one of the hotel clerks saunters over, a plate in hand. "Your breakfast, sir." "Wait...when... I... I didn't order." "You called last night, sir. Pre-ordered." "When...when did I call?" "Sometime around 4am, sir." ****. "Good luck against the dippers tonight, sir." I mumble a thank you, noticing a scar on the back of his right hand as he gives me a fist bump. After breakfast, I pull out my cell phone and scroll back through. A slew of numbers are in the call history, with a +32 country code. Belgium. We are away to Oostende in 5 weeks' time. The match at Anfield passes in a blur -- a hard-fought 4-3 loss, won by Liverpool in the 94th minute after we were denied 2 goals by VAR, which saw fit to gift our hosts a dodgy penalty. The ****s at UEFA must pay.

Feels like that moment that many of us will recognize when playing with a strong squad in a smaller league -- you're good enough to challenge in Europe, but your domestic opposition is miles behind even as the league grows. In due course, they'll start to catch up, but this may be the "Hulk smash" year, domestically.

October 2040 - CAF World Cup Qualifying. The night of the Kobenhavn match, I waited up for Mat. I never heard him come home. Not until I heard his voice from behind me, down the hall. Perhaps the heavy rain and thunder muffled the sounds of his return. I found him again, staring at my father's picture. Mumbling softly. Drenched to the bone, though the hallway itself was thankfully dry (wet marble can be such a hazard, after all). Lightning crashes and the power flickers before going out. Darkness envelops the house, shadows growing as I wait for the generator to kick on. I call out to Mat in the darkness. But he does not answer. After a few moments, the power turns back on. Mat is nowhere to be seen. It is as if he was never there. Over the days that follow, I don't see him anywhere -- not at the house. Not at the office. Not at the fields. The players don't seem to notice his absence. But I do. There is no sign of him at the airport. Nor in Luanda. Though I can feel his presence in Yaounde, he is nowhere to be found. His voice, an echo in my mind. His shadow, at the edge of my peripheral vision.

October 2040. Another European night in Sagarejo. A heavy mist hangs in the air. An unseasonable warmth and humidity. Mat, nowhere to be seen. It takes time for us to get going. But once we find our rhythm the floodgates open. 8-1 at the final whistle. We will head to England later in the month full of confidence. We take a lap to thank the supporters as thunder rolls in the distance. At which point I finally see him. It is only a silhouette, but I would recognize him anywhere. Standing atop the western stand, somehow not buffeted by the growing breeze. Watching me. Holding something in his hand. Something that reflects the light, as lightning crashes over Ninotsminda.

September 2040 (continued). To define Fabrika's "Class of '40" as average -- or any of the players as "good" -- requires nothing less than a suspension in the belief of relativity and perhaps the power of words to convey an agreed-upon meaning. The obvious drop-off in the quality of our academy needs to be discussed. But Mat is distracted. I can tell he's not listening. His mind is elsewhere. I take the opportunity to bring up his mumbling the other night. After all, he is closer to Fabrika and our ever-expanding network throughout the country -- I barely remember which one of us founded which local supporters' club, each of which is a thinly-disguised front for our recruitment efforts. Nothing is getting through. Until I ask him about "Project Mayhem," the mere mention of which causes his eyes to immediately regain focus. A distrustful look on his face. "The first rule of Project Mayhem is you do not ask questions." Clearly, he's holding back. "Something on your mind, Mat?" He just shrugs, and turns away to ask Alexa to play the Eat, Pray, Love soundtrack. Ignoring me. I am turning to leave when Mat speaks up. His voice filled with a clarity -- an urgency -- that I haven't heard in some time. "I'd be very careful who I talked to about Project Mayhem, Rezo... It sounds like someone dangerous is behind it.. Someone who might snap at any moment..." I turn back to face him, but his eyes are again unfocused -- a direct contrast to his voice. "Might be someone you've known for years, Boss... Someone very close to you." His eyes meet mine, focusing as a lopsided smirk grows on his face. "Dinamo kickoff in a few hours, yeah?" A 4-1 win ensues at the Gorlami, clinching our 13th straight league title. But Mat is nowhere to be seen. I don't think I want to know what he's up to. I could ask him. But, I do not trust that he'd answer honestly.

September 2040. The first night back in Europe. There isn't anything like it, when the first notes of the anthem begin to reverberate around the stadium. Champions League football. My drug of choice. Better than a drug in that the highs are incomparable. The lows...? Best not talk about those. As the clock winds down towards kickoff, it is thus strange to not see Mat anywhere. Not in the locker room. Not helping with the warm-up, or the pre-match talk. Not standing with me on the side of the pitch during the match -- a comprehensive 4-1 drubbing of Omar Daf's Oostende. It's only when I get back home, long past midnight, that I find him standing in the hallway, transfixed. Staring at my father's painting. Mumbling incoherently about a "Project Mayhem." Strange behavior, that. But perhaps not strange for Mat, who has his days of...instability, shall we say. With a promise to recap the match (and act out the key moments) I pull him away from the painting. Which...that's odd. The man in the painting, standing in the trees? He bears a strong resemblance to Mat if you squint a bit. And he's holding a knife.

September 2040 - Cup of Nations Qualifying. 2 matches. 2 dominant wins. 6 points. And our place booked in Nigeria for Cup of Nations in January. That'll do.

August 2040. Ahead of the European campaign, we find another gear domestically. We are rampant. Relentless. Ready. We are a 2nd seed this year, and hope that by the grace of urCristiano's glistening abs we are given a favorable draw. Our fingers are crossed for Group B (to face the Portuguese champions, Guimaraes) but instead find ourselves paired with Roberto Martinez's Liverpool in Group C. **** my life. It gets better, though, with Omar Daf's Oostende and FC Kobenhavn as the 3rd and 4th seeds. Barring a monumental **** up, we are looking good value to advance.

I have a color-coded Excel spreadsheet, where the font and background colors each have meaning. It's a bit crazy...I was going through it last night to update it with these signings and it's a bit "A Beautiful Mind."

July 2040 - Confirmed Future Transfers. At the halfway point of the campaign, we're sitting on a remarkable +91 goal difference -- 99 scored, 8 conceded. We cannot keep up this pace...can we? Meanwhile, always on the hunt for bargains, Mat has continued to scour the globe while I sleep. In search of promising talent that we can snap up in our quest to destroy UEFA, the Radish Eaters and... ...I need to start keeping an enemies list. Mat told me to, but I brushed him off, confident that I could keep track of everyone that has earned a karmic reckoning. But, as I pace through the house in the early morning light, I struggle to keep them all straight. I think I hate Roma, but I can't remember why... Lost in thought, I find myself staring at my father's painting. That's strange. I'd never noticed the man standing amongst the trees in the middle distance before... My reverie is broken when Mat cries out in joy from the office -- Taylor is confirmed. A brilliant young Gibraltarian (is that even a word?) midfielder, who already has earned 2 U21 caps at the age of 15. A shining young star, who I see playing deeper...the lad is a natural libero, or my name isn't Rezo Gorlami. Mat points out that practically any footballer savvy enough to tie his shoes can get capped for Gibraltar, but he's just in one of his darker moods. He knows young Taylor is a potential star. He won't join until January 2043, but his signing is a big deal -- and a steal at $110k, all-in. Sékou Kiendrébéogo is another brilliant young player that we have to wait for, for his unveiling. A 16 year-old Burkinabe midfielder, already in their U23s. A steal at $80k. Already with our U19s, we have Ardian Zejnullahu, a 16 year-old Kosovar U21 international who looks more than ready to play as an inverted wingback, even if he's as likely to stomp on your **** as he is to kick the ball. Baye Diop is another early arrival -- a 16 year-old Senegalese U21 international with a bit of pace about him, who can play on either flank but will primarily attack from the left side in our tactics. Only time will tell if any of them have the ability to reach our squad. But the price was right as to all 4, *****. And they all are more than ready to stick a fork in UEFA's eye. For reasons.

It seems that Fabrika is grading on a curve again. A below average class, with one "great" goalkeeping prospect, two "fine" forwards, 1 promising centerback, and 1 promising wide midfielder. "Someone is telling porkies, Mat." "At least the Lions are looking indominable again, Boss. Soaring, one might even say. Maybe if we put them on the pitch with the lads, that would give some additional motivation." "First of all, lions don't "soar." Second, we're not housing actual lions on the training grounds, Mat. We've discussed this." "Actually, Boss, that's not quite right. If you use a trebuchet, lions can soar like the angels. Simple physics, that. And, you were quite clear in saying you didn't want to discuss my idea for free-roaming lions as a way to keep the lads on their toes. So I think it's a discussion we still need to have."

June 2040 - Coefficients Update. The slow, steady rise to the top continues. Gareji rise to 13th in the club coefficients table, with the Erovnuli Liga hitting 20th. This should be enough (in theory) to secure a 2nd seed for the Group Stage draw. We're just shy of having a top spot by default, but need to keep the nation coefficient rising. Dinamo Tbilisi's run to the Europa Conference League quarterfinals is exactly the kind of support we need from our domestic rivals.

June 2040 - International Friendlies. The build-up to our June friendlies is relatively straightforward. The lads all know what is expected of them. But no one listens when I tell them at the team meeting that, under no circumstances are they to accept food from Mat. The next morning, much to my chagrin, I come down to breakfast only to find that they're all eating toast he prepared. And buttered. Personally. And just you wait, I'm the one they'll come complain to when they get sick later. Should've listened to Rezo, lads.

May 2040 - European Review. The words make me physically ill. "Jurgen Klopp's Liverpool won the Champions League." Again. Rui Patricio's Roma could have been heroes. Instead they're losers. And I hate them for it. In the Europa League, like a latter-day-Sevilla, Eddie Howe's Athletic reached their third straight Europa League final, winning it for the 2nd time -- defeating Ruben Amorim's Leicester City. Mersad Selimbegovic's Monchengladbach -- say that 10x, fast -- won the Europa Conference League with a 4-3 (aet) win over Sebastian Dailly's Marseille. In the active leagues: Thomas Tuchel's Manchester United took home the Premier League title; Julian Nagelsmann's Bayern reasserted their dominance over the Bundesliga; Gerardo Seaone's Atletico secured the La Liga title despite losing away to the Basques on the final matchday, when Vincent Kompany's Barcelona was held to a draw at the Camp Nou by Dimitri Payet's Real Zaragoza; Diego Simeone's Inter Milan won their 5th Serie A title in 6 years; and, finally, John Aloisi's Lyon won their first title since 2028/29, causing local business leaders to give John's pet koala, Benny, the key to the city.

April/May 2040. Our solid run of form continues, fueled by the bitter taste of failure. And fresh Spanish grapefruit, flown in daily from the club's private plantation in Murcia. (Technically, it's owned by our Qatari owner's holding company, Ice Station Zebra Associates.) Suffice to say that the cannon fodder that passes for our domestic "competition" will continue to be beaten senseless until morale improves.