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Ataturk Olimpyat. It haunts his dreams. They were so close, yet so far. The goalposts denying them twice at the death. That sensation of euphoria only to be immediately drowned out by despair as the ball beat the keeper yet stopped, the goal shaking as it cannoned off the frame and out of play. They rushed back but there was no time. A whistle was blown. Defeat. He wandered through Europe since that day. Bulgaria so consumed in mourning didn’t realise the date the League was meant to start again had come… And so it passed unplayed. A competition still not set, a transfer window still open and a cup yet to be drawn. A month behind schedule. Two… Three…. Bulgaria refuses to recover and so he wanders… Not only across Europe, but also through time and space until he finds himself in a world so similar to his own and yet so very different. And still they call to him. This time he’s a year older. A year wiser. His players have lost a year under his wing, some of them have endured, emerging stronger, better. Others though have been unable to escape the ravages of time as their potential gives way to the void. He shall persevere though. For himself. For Bulgaria. But most importantly… For Slavia. Coming Soon...