The Unwanted

It seemed too bizarre to be true.

How on earth could a fully qualified manager wait over a calendar year for an interview?

Okay, so I applied at some places that probably weren’t good ideas. And I figured that applying at Liverpool when they were ready to sack Rafa Benitez might get me a joke of the day story on Sky or something.

But seriously, more than a year?

I wondered if it could have been my extant job. I’d have thought people would light themselves on fire to reduce the size of the Inland Revenue by one person, but no such luck.

Finally, though, the call came.

My phone rang on the evening of September 28, 2009. A voice that sounded like it would have fit right in with the KGB was on the other end of the line.

“Mr. Livingston, I presume,” the thickly accented voice said.

I smiled at the presumably unintended double entendre. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir,” I replied.

“To whom am I speaking?”

“My name is Emil Nakov. I am new chairman of Kildare County. We have taken over the club.”

The roughness of his voice made me wonder if he had taken it over at gunpoint. But I knew better than to argue. This man wanted to talk about a job.

“We have opening for manager now that we have sacked Mr. Stein.”

I knew that Kildare County was in the Irish First Division, but I knew this call was probably bad news.

Calling up the league table on the internet, my fears were confirmed.

Kildare County are quite probably the worst team in the Republic.

They were 27 points adrift of Wexford in the league table.

Eleventh-placed Wexford.

They were 67 points adrift of table-topping Shelbourne. In their 28 games they had managed to accumulate how many points?

Well, let’s see … none.

Not one. Twenty-eight played, twenty-eight lost.

Goals scored: seven. Goals conceded: one-hundred three.

I shrugged.

“Okay, Mr. Nakov. What can you tell me about your takeover?”

“The club is in precarious financial state,” he said. “We are amateur club.”

I couldn’t resist. “Given the table, Mr. Nakov, I’d say that’s a given.”

“We have no transfer budget.” That should have been expected.

“All right, how about my compensation?” I asked.

“Same as the transfer budget,” Nakov replied, and let out the sort of laugh you might have expected in a bad B movie.

“Let me get back to you,” I replied.

Author's notes: started (highly unsuccessfully) on FM09 and shifted to FM10.3. Home nations selected to lowest playable league, with Germany, France and Holland thrown in for yucks.

I'm not intending for this to be a detailed story. That's what Rat Pack is for. But I would like a save where I get to play more FM, and this is it. I hope you enjoy.

16 July 2010

ttl

Something a little less mainstream should be interesting 10-3, good luck xxx

Like your premise for this story 10-3. I'm precisely not writing because I'm having too much fun playing, so I'm going to follow this with alot of interest.

Well, I'll tell you this: Kildare County is the worst FM team I have ever seen. Yet it was the first job offer I got and I promised myself I would take the first offer. Avoiding the sack with this team will be an absolute miracle.

___

It was a week later. For some reason, Nakov seemed to think that I should actually answer his question.

So this time, the Bulgarian’s phone call was slightly more insistent.

“Decision, please,” he said. “We played a game while waiting for you.”

I noticed that. Kildare had put nine attempts on goal against Finn Harps in their prior outing – five of them on target – and still managed to lose 4-nil.

A grand total of 111 ticket holders had crammed their way into Station Road – the club does not evidently sell season tickets so Nakov doesn’t have that for income – but something appealed to me about this job.

So did the thought of a really stiff shot of Irish whisky. But only looking at the team sheet and some of the team statistics, such as they were.

Working in the Republic was different from England, obviously. I had used the week to check into the legalities but the fact of the matter was that I was a test project for the rest of the season. Kildare would have to play someone at the end of the season in order to remain in the second tier of Irish football and not only that, they would have to win.

Failing that, Mr. Nakov might come looking for me.

I wasn’t doing anything else for the wind down of the Irish season, so I figured I’d watch it from the touchline.

“Okay,” I finally said. “Let’s see what I can do.”

Something a little less mainstream should be interesting 10-3, good luck xxx

LOL's at Elrithral having to go back and re-edit his posts after his drunken posting spree on Friday night.

Good luck with this mob, 10-3.

What's the point of expression an opinion if you can't change it later, Spav? You have just explained politics

But thank you for the good luck wish. A gander through the squad indicates exactly why this club is 0-0-29 in its league...

___

The squad could be called threadbare if there were in fact any whole cloth to hold the threads together.

They’re all amateurs, they’re all on the same salary as I am, and as such it really doesn’t do much good to denigrate them.

But I’m going to do it anyway. After realizing after my first training session with the team that our first match in my charge is not only just 48 hours away in Galway against Mervue United but is also televised, I wondered whether waiting another week to give my decision wouldn’t have been a better idea.

I started by meeting my staff. All three of them.

Ian Bishop is three years older than I am, and is likely more qualified to manage than I am. So that’s helpful.

In a career spanning 23 seasons, Ian played for Everton, Crewe, Carlisle, Bournemouth, Manchester City in their Second Division days in the late 1990s, and spent most of his career with West Ham.

He also played for seven different clubs in the last three seasons of his career and his last five transfers didn’t cost either club a pence. So he knows what it’s like on both sides of the street in this game.

Then there’s John Murphy, the first team coach. An Irishman to the fingertips, he never played professionally. So I guess you could say it’s feast or famine there.

A kind gentleman called Paul O’Leary is my physio and Neil Conway is gracious enough to go watch other teams play as my scout. It might be better than watching us, unfortunately.

My captain is William Skelly, a 27-year old keeper with great influence and not such a good grasp on the ball. He’s conceded a tidy 82 in 25 games, but had a career performance in our Cup defeat at Dundalk. Not only did we score in that game, we only conceded two, one of just three matches this season that have been decided by a single goal.

He is backed up by Keith Traynor, a 24-year old who is worried that I told the reporter from the local paper that I wouldn’t mind talking with players if they had concerns. I suppose I’m just supposed to guess.

My right fullback is 27-year old Graham Gough, who is determined to be fast, and can run without falling down. That’s about it.

On the other side, another 27-year old, Gavin Kinsella, is there. He’s mentally strong and a good physical specimen and can throw a ball from here to Cork. That’s about it.

Bernard Brennan is a 24-year old central defender who has the look of the aggressor about him. Which isn’t bad. He is also able to stand next to an opposing striker.

Kevin Cotter, 28, is another central defender who has occupied space in 18 of our matches. This must be because he is highly influential. Like Brennan, he talks a good game but doesn’t necessarily play one.

Then there’s Fergus Foley. Technically, the 25-year old does nothing well. Yet, like his mates on the back line, he talks a good game and works reasonably hard. Oh, and he can jump, which is good when you are 6’3”. He can head a ball nearly as far as Kinsella can throw it, with about the same accuracy. Both efforts would wind up in Cork.

Anthony Robinson, 28, may play some in the center of defense. He is 6’4”, so at least we’ll be reasonably hard to beat in the air. He, like Brennan, can also locate players wearing the opposing team’s colors.

In fact, our shortest central defender is 6’2”. So we are big, but slow.

At age 26, Roy Murray is what passes for a holding midfielder on this team. He can take a first touch without tripping over the ball and understands a team concept. The rest, not so much.

Pat Clarke, 27, is a right-sided wing and central midfielder. For a description, see Gough. Unfortunately.

Lee Morris, 25, is a pure right-winger. Who can’t dribble or cross a ball. But he’s really fast.

Then there’s David Duffy, 28, who is the vice-captain. His vices are an inability to dribble and play more than once a week or so due to rather appalling physical conditioning. But since he is influential in my changing room, I don’t think I’ll tell him that.

Blaise O’Brien, 22, might be the best midfielder I have. He can actually cross a ball, take a penalty and play in a team concept. He’s also the best in the squad at keepy-uppy. Hey, I’m looking for positives.

Thomas Coleman, 27, is my number seven. This means he wears the number seven shirt.

Tim Jackson, 26, is approximately half as big as Robinson. He is non-descript in every fashion, but will not play again this season due to a torn hamstring.

Fran Flood, 26, is one of three strikers at the club. He is the joint leading goal-scorer, with two. He scored against Dundalk in the Cup, so he’s legendary. He is quick, but does not seem to understand the concept of offside.

Chris Horgan, 24, is the other joint leading goal scorer. Aside from not scoring against Dundalk in the Cup, he is the same as Flood.

Alan Martin, 25, is the best finisher I have, which means he is able to identify the opposing goal. He has scored one goal and can run a little bit.

Looking at that group, the first thing I did was watch my reserves and u-20s. The second thing I did was sign Jim Hastings, a 17-year old midfielder, to a contract on the spot. He’s got more moxie than anyone on my current team. 20-year old Gordan Curran, a left-sider with more on the ball than anyone in the senior eleven, also is getting a deal.

19-year old Brian Treacy is a third player among the youngsters who got an invite to play seniors. I can re-make my midfield for free – and will have to.

Another 19-year old, Shane McGee, is a better holding midfielder than any senior I have.

Adam Dowling, a 17-year old right fullback, is an upgrade to Gough, which is a bit sad.

Among the strikers, 20-year old Paul Place and 17-year old David Tracey impressed, though only the former got a contract offer right away.

So after one training session, I replaced six first-team players with youth-teamers. We have a lot of work to do.

Loving it so far, will be reading. Recommend steel bars in front of the windows in Cork.

@ Spav. I'm still recovering

Irish First Division Match #29 – Mervue Utd v Kildare County

Sitting back on the bench, I gazed at the scoreboard. Five minutes into my managerial career, we were already trailing.

David O’Dowd, who has already punched his ticket for Galway United and a spot in the Irish Premier Division next season, had done the dastardly deed, turning in Gary Traynor’s cross with ridiculous ease while Bernard Brennan stood and admired him.

Beside me on the bench, Bishop smiled.

“Welcome to Kildare,” he said, with only a trace of smugness.

If he had felt resentment at not taking over this bunch of misfits instead of me, he hadn’t shown it. Perhaps he knew something I didn’t.

It’s a good thing I love parades because that’s what the first half was. It was one-way traffic. I felt it madness to field a team with two strikers who couldn’t find the net, especially playing away from home. Instead, I could field five midfielders who couldn’t walk and chew gum at the same time. An incalculable advantage.

So that’s what I did. 4-2-3-1 for this fellow.

All six of the youth players were in the eleven. I didn’t care about the reaction, perhaps because the old guys ahead of them had managed to lose 28 consecutive matches. How could the kids be worse?

The club’s nickname is ‘The Thoroughbreds’. However, watching the opening minutes I noted that in reality we were fielding five Clydesdales, six ponies and more than a few geldings. We have so much work to do it’s not even funny.

We actually settled down a bit due to the explicit instructions I had given them regarding defensive play. The media, such as it was, seemed to think we should just run right out there and attack. And when you’ve lost as many in a row as we have, there’s something to that.

I’d just prefer not to see these young men embarrass themselves. So we had almost made it to halftime before young McGee got his feet tangled up with O’Dowd’s right next to the penalty spot.

Naturally, referee Derek Tomney pointed to it, to my consternation and McGee’s fright. His first senior match had resulted in giving away a penalty, which Nigel Keady put away with considerable aplomb and ease.

I had my halftime speech all prepared before McGee’s mistake. Now I had to revise it, to settle the young men down.

“How long is it before you show them you can play?” I asked. “Show them! You were a goal down until just before the break against a good side. Show them you can play!”

Three minutes into the second half, their other striker, David Goldbey, showed us he could play. So that was pretty much the opposite of what I had intended.

To make matters worse, Brennan got himself sent off twenty minutes from time for a second bookable offense. He took the long march, I thought about how much fun it would be to play 4-4-1, and we folded like a house of cards.

Debut? Not what I had in mind.

Mervue Utd 3 (O’Dowd 5, Keady 44 pen, Goldbey 48)

Kildare County 0 (as in zero)

A – 210, Terryland Park, Galway

Man of the Match – Gary Traynor, Mervue Utd (8.7)

Best I Had – Fergus Foley (sub 70) – 6.8

Thomas Coleman, 27, is my number seven. This means he wears the number seven shirt.

Love it.

I think I'll enjoy this, 10-3. I need a bit of light reading.

Nice beginning 10-3 I had a lot of fun with Wexford, but they were also a *much* better club than Kildare....

Tour Haiti. They'd do just fine ...

Enjoying this so far, and interested in how the tone changes--my assumption is that (unless you are canned tomorrow), affection will develop. Always fun & challenging to write the movement from sarcasm to friendship.

We'll see, Makonnen ... if I last long in this job, it's possible some sort of affection for this team might develop. Only time (and hopefully, results) will tell...

___

Heck, I didn’t even need beer goggles.

Despite a drubbing that was embarrassing even for this aggregation, my first trip to the pubs in Newbridge was not only non-threatening, it was actually fairly pleasant.

We don’t have enough of a fan base at this time to really have to worry about going out in public after we lose – which is all the time.

Most of the people in Coffy’s Bar were ambivalent to me. That wasn’t a big deal. I didn’t really mind that, since our trip back from Galway was pretty quiet in any event.

I sat by myself in a corner booth, tipping back a Guinness while trying to figure out where I had gone wrong in my debut.

I finally decided that I didn’t do better because the laws of the game won’t let me play thirteen at a time. Maybe that would have helped.

Tipping back the dark beer, I noticed through the bottom of my glass that the barmaid was looking at me.

“She’s attentive. Must want to get me smashed,” I thought. “More money.”

She approached, almost on cue. To say she was the prototypical Irish redhead would have been an understatement.

I smiled thickly, the second Guiness already lying on the bottom of my stomach like a rock.

“Nola McCarthy, and no you can’t,” she said, with a teasing smile.

“I can’t what? Have another?”

“You can have another, but you can’t have my phone number.”

She had me taken completely aback.

“I didn’t ask for it,” I said, as she took my empty glass.

“But you were going to,” she said. “All the new customers in here do, right after they ask me my name.”

I could see why. There were at least two good reasons.

I gave her a sloppy grin.

“Even if I were going to, I wouldn’t do it that way,” I said.

“And how would you?” she asked, with enough of a teasing expression to let me know that she was both kidding me and very good at her job at the same time.

“Uhh … some different way.”

“That’s what they all say,” she said, heading back to the bar for Round Three of the Battle of Guinness.

She returned with a full pint glass.

“Here you go,” she said, and I was starting to wonder what my tab would be.

“Now’s the time in our conversation when I ask what you do, since you’re new here,” she said.

“I’m the new manager of Kildare County,” I said, taking a pull from the glass as she prepared to leave.

“Ah. A masochist.”

She laughed over her shoulder, and walked back behind the bar.

Enjoying this so far. Very good read.

I managed Kildare County for a little spell before on the game as well and had no luck with them. That was in the division below as well. :o

Hope you fare much better than I did.

10-3, enjoying this. A much lighter style than RRRP if you don't mind me saying. Hope things get better for your team.

Thanks, fellows! I like the lighter style and I'm happy people seem to be enjoying the different look at my writing style. But this club is HORRIBLE, unfortunately ...

___

Irish First Division Match #30 – University College Dublin v Kildare County

Talk about no respect.

I mean, the players wearing the shirt didn’t deserve any until they earned it. I was talking about myself.

Not that I’ve earned any either, mind you. I was laughing at myself with regard to Nola.

Clearly she was the one everybody in the place wanted, and clearly she knew it.

I look at her as a challenge. Not because I’m going to make a play on her – I have no chance with someone who knows she’s the bomb – but because I need the sport.

When I played - and my experience in professional football lasted about a season and a half with Aldershot – I enjoyed the challenge of the local women. They didn’t seem to enjoy the challenge of me, however, and stayed away from me in droves throughout my career.

I’m not ugly. I guess I just look like I am.

Anyway, at least she gave me credit for being able to try. Sort of like the eleven I was about to put out tonight.

The kids were going to get another chance, against opposition not quite as good as we had faced in Mervue.

UCD are a mid-table side, meaning they entered play only 45 points ahead of us in the table, as opposed to Mervue’s 49. Those four points make all the difference.

Still, though, there’s something I sort of like about these players.

They get down on themselves easily, which I don’t like that very much, but there’s an ease about their manner which suggests that even the inevitable defeat might not slay them completely.

They had a deer-in-the-headlights approach to their play against Mervue, though, which wasn’t optimal, but it was certainly understandable. The kids showed some pluck, even after we went down to ten men.

There’s an element of distress among those who have lost their places to the younger boys, though, and that’s unfortunate. They’ve had all season to win a match, though, and they haven’t. So really, what have I got to lose?

But still, these players want to win. Even if it’s just once. Certainly nobody knows what lies ahead in terms of our future in this league, or even the future of the club if it doesn’t build a ticket-buying fan base.

In short, it’s the sort of challenge that if I were a romantic I’d enjoy.

But I’m not. So I’m sitting here complaining.

Speaking of ugly, eventually we had to kick off the match.

As the teeming throng of about 450 spectators at Dublin’s Belfield Bowl looked on, my boys were immediately put under the cosh by the home team.

They came out in 4-4-2 – but I had what I thought was a better idea.

Just for grins and giggles, I put us in a 4-4-2 box formation. The idea was that since I don’t have any wing players worth a … well, you know … I might as well pack the middle. That way, when the opponent inevitably attacked, the mass of humanity in front of our goal might be harder to penetrate.

Armed with this infectious optimism, I put all four of the kids – twenty-year old Curran, seventeen-year old Treacy, 17-year old Hastings and twenty-year old McGee – out there in a box and told them to do the best they could.

The fact that all four of their combined ages still didn’t add up to Keith Richards’ didn’t matter much. Young legs might make the formation work, or at least work better than the 4-4-2 that had been flogged 28 times running or the 4-2-3-1 that had been flogged once and put into retirement.

We had no possession. That should have been obvious. We generated next to no offense. That also should have been expected.

Yet it took us nearly half an hour to concede. That was unexpected.

UCD lined up with a team of youngsters too. The only difference was that theirs were a lot better than ours.

Sean Houstan, a 17-year old who was a free transfer from Finn Harps before the start of the season, bagged his 14th goal of the campaign, which gave him twice as many as my whole team. That was disturbing.

It wasn’t even an especially attractive goal – he just pounded a shot from twenty yards and smiled as Traynor flailed away at it.

The reserve keeper was a bit upset about his first-team opportunities of late, so I figured now was as good a time as any to see if he could do what he claimed.

Unfortunately, that meant captain Skelly was on the bench. Sometimes you can’t win for losing. And since we lose all the time, that sort of means … well, I’m not really sure what it means.

We headed to halftime still, rather miraculously, down only 1-0. They weren’t overwhelming us, and the Kiddie Midfield was holding its own.

We hadn’t generated a single opportunity at goal as yet, but we weren’t getting swamped. That was half the battle.

After reminding the lads at halftime that the opponents’ goal was that-a-way and you didn’t need a passport to go and run toward it, we headed out for the second half.

The players seemed loose and more or less excited. It was still a game, after all.

The second half kicked off, and my urging from the touchline to get the damned thing forward actually seemed to resonate. Treacy figured out that the damned thing I had in mind was actually the ball, so there was that to consider as well.

So he played it forward. This was another positive step.

He played it onto the run of Horgan, which was another positive step.

Horgan didn’t miss it, which was a third positive step in sequence.

He looked up and saw that a rather stunned UCD defense had left him a route to goal. So he moved forward, a fourth positive step.

He shot the ball. At the goal. Steps five and six.

On target. Step seven.

Unfortunately, keeper Gerard Barron was there and made a fine save diving to his left. Rats.

However, he pushed the rebound right to Flood. I had lost track of the positive steps by this time so I simply stood up and screamed.

“Shoot!” I bellowed, seemingly the only one in the ground speaking at that moment.

So, Flood did.

And he scored.

Good Lord, he scored.

Kildare County were level for the first time in over 29 matches.

There were 48 minutes on the clock, and a long, long way to go.

My father's family all hail from Kildare, so I'm expecting you to uphold the family honour!

Just kidding, I don't envy your task at all, looking forward to reading more.

Get in there!

Thanks, fellows ... Kildare are trying to hang on!

___

It seemed like a long way there.

It was.

Robbie Creevy, who had watched both my strikers stroll past him to help set up our goal, was an immediate casualty after the goal, pulled unceremoniously in favor of veteran defender Ross Hegan.

That didn’t satisfy Diarmuid McNally, who looked mad enough to spit nails in the opposite dugout. When their riposte wasn’t immediate, he also brought off young striker Ciaran Kilduff in favor of equally young Gavin Falconer.

Flood wound up in the book for grabbing a couple fistfuls of Davy Byrne’s shirt and if Fran had had three hands he would probably have grabbed more.

Houstan immediately celebrated the booking by rocketing the ensuing free kick off the crossbar while Traynor stood and admired the effort, having forgotten to jump.

It then began to rain, which I thought could only benefit us. We don’t exactly have a short passing game – hell, we don’t have a passing game period – so lumping the ball up the park to re-set after a wave of UCD pressure was the best thing for us.

Now Falconer was into the match fully, taking Evan McMillan’s deep cross and powering a drive off Traynor’s outstretched palm and behind for a corner.

At that point midfielder Greg Bolger went down under a heavy challenge from Hastings, of all people, and had to come off. That was it for substitutions for the home team, replaced by defender Michael Leahy as the home team cycled position players.

It wasn’t as though McNally was playing defensively, or even felt he had to. They were dominating the match and it was only a matter of time before they regained their advantage. After all, everyone else had.

Now they were starting to play physically, UCD was. Connaughton did his best impression of a freight train in blasting Treacy off his pins – off the ball – as the match moved to 70 minutes. He was crocked in fairly short order, forcing me to turn to Murray in his place.

Thus enraged, Kinsella returned the favor to Chris Mulhall, only naturally my guy wound up in the book for it. You can’t win for losing.

Horgan had done all he could do – literally, since he really can’t do very much – and just after Mulhall’s carding I went to the bench for young Paul Place as his replacement.

The kids were doing all right. Unfortunately, we were being dominated. We had no possession, UCD could cycle possession at will, and when we got the ball we’d make the most amazing decisions in order to gift it back to them.

“If I didn’t know better I’d say someone has money on this game,” I said to Bishop. “In our midfield.”

Fourteen minutes to play. McMillan gave the ball to Ross Hegan, and could probably have handed it to him for all the pressure we were putting on the ball defensively. Which was to say, none.

Hegan put a very nice little ball into the left channel, or what would have been the channel had our full back been in the right place. Instead, it was just a ball into wide open space, and thankfully Leahy’s first touch deserted him for Kinsella to thunder it clear.

Naturally, his clearance was right back to McMillan, and this time the midfielder’s ball-at-will into our box found Leahy – and Gough.

Graham was in the right place at the right time, which was really good of him. He also seemed to put his forehead through Leahy’s as the two went for the ball.

Had there been more than a few hundred people in the stands, a roar might have gone up. Instead, individuals yelling at referee Dan Deady could be heard all over the ground. Some people are pretty inventive.

Deady waved play on. With fourteen minutes to play, we were still clinging to a draw.

I've never seen a 0-0-29 before! On another version years ago, I did see a cpu team (ironically it was Luton) fail to win for 36 matches in the premier league and then beat league leaders Chelsea 1-0 in game 37. Still, at least they had a few draws before then. Kildaire have had none.

Liking the cheeky chappie approach to the diary in this one. Can I just say as well that it's probably a good thing for you you've picked the worst team. Looking at the gaming results in Rat Pack and Final Frontier, I would say your "FM game skill level" is probably very high. This is a good challenge for you.

Surprising how much fun I'm having with this, Scottlee. I do realize that FM is a computer game and I've been a bit fortunate with team choices on prior saves, but this is a real challenge.

I'm starting to like these guys ..

___

Right about then, my attitude started to change.

The players were working extremely hard, even if their application was shocking at times.

They were amateurs playing against professionals and they were fighting tooth and nail for a draw away from home.

A draw – a lousy, stinking sister-kisser – and it was all they had been able to manage in 30 starts. They were trying to claim a point – Lord knows we weren’t pushing forward or anything like that – and they were leaving it all on the pitch for each other. They were tired of losing.

I owed them better.

I owed them the effort they were now showing on the pitch.

Gough’s look of determination after getting away with simple assault in our penalty area said all that needed to be said, and to use the common phrase, it was my first clue.

The rest of the clue bus soon followed and left me lying in a rhetorical heap on the edge of my technical area. I looked over at Bishop.

He just nodded at me.

So I got up.

Now it was UCD’s Davy Byrne using a block tackle on Flood to make sure as we moved the ball into a reasonably threatening position. There were eleven guys out there trying to make it work.

I stood on the touchline and applauded them, and the players turned almost as one to see what had happened.

Mulhall wound up on the ball for them until Robinson and Gough double-teamed him. I could have cared less that there were two defenders on one ball handler – they were aggressive and Gough’s header behind for a corner was good business for us.

Place headed the corner up the park, and the players hardly needed me to tell them to stay behind the ball. These players were going try to hold that draw with every ounce of their energy.

Now Flood and McGee were working the ball up the park and to a corner, which was great to see even if there was too much time on the clock for us to be doing that as a realistic strategy. It was very negative – but we were playing for a point.

Mitch Kelly and Connaughton were all over us, first for the delaying tactic and then offensively once they got the ball back.

Byrne wound up with it at the edge of our area and looped a cross to the back post for Mulhall – but this time Kinsella was there, to head clear.

His header didn’t get past Hegan, though, and he moved straight in for a shot that grazed the top of the bar on its way over the top.

They were dominating, but they were misfiring.

Now Connaughton had wrested possession from us from the goal kick and was flying down the left. He headed into the middle for Falconer, whose header was true.

Yet Traynor, the big goalkeeper with feet of clay and hands of stone, read the play beautifully, diving to his right to push Falconer’s effort around the post. It was just a wonderful save.

The bench players were up and jumping around as one, and the whole team on the pitch rushed to help Traynor to his feet. They could – UCD’s pressure had hammered all eleven of us inside our six-yard box.

They took a short corner, and Hegan moved in from Traynor’s right for another attempt at goal. This time he shot directly at the keeper, and he held it easily.

McGee was completely knackered by this time, and to give us a breather as much as anything else, I replaced him with Fergus Foley. I just wanted fresh legs out there and the biggest men I could find to try to slow down UCD.

Then they decided we should play four minutes of Fergie-time. I figured three minutes of it were for the substitutions, but all I knew was that I wanted whoever timed those four minutes to time the rest of my life.

They took forever.

We gave up a free kick when Foley tripped Hegan right at the top of our D. It was tailor-made and we all knew it.

The substitute’s expression was one of pure agony.

Brian Shortall moved up to take the kick and from twenty yards he dispatched his effort to the top left corner of our goal.

And Traynor covered it, punching over the bar.

Now running short of time, Shortall sprinted to the corner flag to take an in-swinging effort. That was Murray’s ball, and his header blooped over the packed-in UCD attack. They had six in our box along with all eleven of our players and it was a little crowded in there.

Now it was Cotter who gave up a free kick, felling Houstan just outside the left edge of our area. Again, it was Shortall taking the kick – and his effort hit Kinsella right in the forehead.

Deady gave three long blasts to his whistle. You’d have thought we had won something. Anything.

Trying to maintain some semblance of dignity, the players and coaches emptied the bench and piled on the man of the hour, Traynor.

The last time this group played UCD on this ground, they had lost seven-nil.

Today, though, we hadn’t lost. And damn, it felt great.

0-1-30. You’ve gotta start somewhere.

UCD 1 (Sean Houstan 24)

Kildare County 1 (Fran Flood 48)

A – 464, Belfield Bowl, Dublin

Man of the Match – Gavin Kinsella, Kildare County (7.2)

Best I Had – see above

i cannot wait until the next installment, i read alot of the stories and its great to read one like this, that isnt destroying the world with Man U etc

I love the lower leagues, keep the laughs coming, i can smell the first win!

That's not a win you smell, it's the lack of care taken in clearing the crap off the pitch.

Nice update, too--glad to see the change in attitude from the manager, too. Nicely done ...

Buy those lads a beer. That is, one pint for eleven guys, on the money you're making there.

10-3 a very good story you have lined up here. That last game for you reminded me of a match from my teams league last season. Poor Durham City had lost every game up until they played FC United of Manchester at Gigg Lane. Here are the highlights and a little bit of the reaction after the match http://www.fcum.tv/2010/03/13/fc-united-v-durham-city-13032010-npl-hightlights-hd/

Thanks for following along, everyone. This story started as a knock-off but frankly I'm enjoying it more and more each time I sit down to write. Last night I couldn't stop after finishing another few pages in Rat Pack, so here's a bit more.

And Mark, way to foreshadow me, sir!

___

One of the best things about being a fully amateur side is that you can cut loose without losing professionalism.

And we did. Believe me, we did.

The dozen or so traveling supporters who made the trek to Dublin preceded the team coach home with horns blaring as word spread that the Thoroughbreds had actually managed a point.

The forty miles or so from Dublin to Newbridge on the M7 were covered in short order – the trip home is always quicker when you do something positive – and we were in high spirits.

Even those who hadn’t played were feeling a bit of a glow. There’s nothing like ending a long losing skid to pick up spirits, obviously – and picking up spirits was frankly on everyone’s mind.

We drove into Droichead Nua on the Walshestown Road and the players were looking to me for direction.

They got it.

I got out of my seat and headed up front to the driver, whispering a word in his ear. I then turned to the squad.

“All right, men, here’s the deal,” I said, as the coach pulled into the car park outside our ground. “Get your kit stowed, get your uniforms in good order and then whoever wants to can meet me at Curry’s. First round’s on the boss.”

All of a sudden, I was popular.

All of a sudden, I wanted to be a part of this group. They had earned their point and I was damn proud of them.

While the players headed inside to stow their gear – there were no kit men or porters at this amateur club – I got in my car and headed down to the pub with Bishop. I was as ready for a drink as the rest of them.

Arriving at Curry’s, we walked in expecting nothing in terms of reception. After all, only a few townspeople had cared enough to make the trip to Dublin and support the side.

Yet, they had seemed to arrive before us. When we walked in, we got a nice ovation from the patrons. Everyone loves a team that tries.

Then they went back to their darts, arguments about politics, and quaffing of pints.

I sat down with Bishop, and leaned back in my chair. It wasn’t a win by any stretch, but it still felt nice.

That little waitress approached with two pints of Guinness and this time, she smiled.

“Well done, I hear,” she said.

“Thank you,” I replied, toasting the night with my assistant as the first players arrived.

They felt they could now be seen in public, and they were in a partying mood, especially when the boss gets the bill.

I looked at the waitress and couldn’t help but suppress a grin.

“My name is Matt Livingston,” I told her. “And yes, you can.”

# # #

cant wait for more. I love the minnows. Im having a similar travel with Cachnecuddin FC in the Scottish Highlands, they try so hard bless 'em, im sure we will score a goal soon..

Thanks, aussieant. I'm glad you're enjoying the story. I'm really starting to enjoy it as well, which means it's probably going to hang around for awhile

___

You’d have expected us to be in a good mood after such a positive result.

We were. And after a weekend off to recover from the celebration, we gathered to train early the following week to prepare for a match we actually think we have a chance to win.

You heard me.

W-I-N.

That’s where you score more goals than your opposition.

We host Wexford, the eleventh-placed team in our league. Yeah, they’re 35 points ahead of us or so, but we’re actually optimistic.

This is good, because we close our season against Shelbourne, which has already been crowned champion of the First Division and as such will hopefully have absolutely nothing to play for.

We’re all optimistic, except for Paul Place.

That’s because Bernard Brennan slid right through Place’s legs in our first training drill after coming back to work and sprained his ankle for him.

Frankly, it was one of the least intelligent things I have ever seen done on a football pitch. As Place rolled on the ground in pain and O’Leary approached at a sprint to see what he could do, I kicked the turf in frustration.

I’d rather have kicked Brennan, but I didn’t think that would be a popular move.

For his part, Brennan felt bad, but that didn’t help Place. I was counting on him to play against Wexford because he’s got a bit of pace and a little bit of a nose for goal, which obviously is something we need since we’ve scored exactly eight goals all season.

Injuries happen. So does stupidity. When they meet in the same place at the same time, no good can come of it.

I felt like a heel.

Nakov and I were having a conversation in his office and especially after the last performance, I was feeling pretty bad about what I had to say.

Yet, it was my responsibility to say it.

“We need a parent club,” I told him. “We need to find a better way to bring in players.”

“Don’t you have enough?” he asked. “We pay expenses, you know. And I give you six youth players after first training session.”

The Bulgarian lapsed into broken English whenever we talked about money.

“I do know,” I replied. “Yet clearly, the players we have aren’t of the standard to be competitive in this league.”

“You got a draw the other night.”

“Which we were damn fortunate to get,” I said. “The boys played hard and fair play to them for that, but really, if we want to have any chance to compete for anything except relegation in this league, we need a different standard.”

“We cannot pay.”

“I know. And that means we’ll have to get loans from a parent club big enough to pay their salaries.”

“Do you worry about some players being paid while others are not?”

“Yes,” I answered. “But I worry more about dropping out of this league and causing even more hardship for everyone.”

Nakov thought it over. He had put €600,000 of his own money into the club after taking it over – and as a fully amateur club, that money was sitting there on the books doing nothing.

I was surprised at how much I was starting to care.

My job with the Inland Revenue back in Blackpool was paying my bills and I was burning vacation time to take training with the team one day a week and attend matches. Bishop would run the club locally whenever I couldn’t make it, and we would talk nightly to discuss the squad.

It was far from optimal, but at the same time, it was starting to consume me.

And now some of these players, who wanted nothing more than to win and perhaps find a professional club, were on the block.

Nakov thought it over.

Clearly, for the good of the club, it was the only thing we could do.

Still, though, I felt like an absolute heel. But I repeat myself.

Not surprisingly, the club offices are located at the ground. So on those occasions where I am able to be present, I have a modest little office I can use.

I’ve no secretary, PA or whatever else managers at professional clubs have. Nakov does, but then he probably needs one.

The first home match in my charge was to be played on that ground the following night and we’ll be here two weeks following when we play Shelbourne, so before training I was able to drop off a few things I’ll need to help me get ready for both those matches and the relegation playoff.

To say my office is Spartan in accommodation would be kind.

For starters, it’s 12-foot by 12-foot. So it’s not exactly palatial.

I’ve got a metal desk that looks like original equipment from the club’s formation in 2002, which isn’t bad except for the coffee stains burned into its top. Evidently, the office coffee machine had spent a little time on that spot – and evidently a little time in the repair shop or the dustbin immediately following.

An old-fashioned metal office chair with four coasters sat behind it, with a desktop computer to the left of my work space. It too had seen better days.

Two more office chairs sat opposite the desk in case anyone wanted to shoehorn into the room for a visit. The walls were populated by a few framed newspaper clippings highlighting past Thoroughbred triumphs.

They were long past, unfortunately, since there hadn’t been any this season. We’re hoping to change that against Wexford.

We got some interesting news on the Wednesday following the UCD match. Our opponents had sacked Diarmuid McNally.

They didn’t say if it was due to his inability to beat our merry little band on home turf, or if he had simply died of embarrassment, but for the few days following the news we all walked around calling each other ‘boss killer’.

Especially Flood, who had scored our goal. I was happy for the kid. So much has gone wrong for all of them this season that any bit of news that would breed confidence was welcome, even if it meant someone losing his job.

I don’t know if anyone will necessarily care on the day I lose mine. That’s the way of the world in this business. Clubs have fattened up against us this season so when we take a scalp in return we’re entitled to gloat a bit.

However, gloating wasn’t what Nakov had on his mind as he walked into ‘my office’.

No rap on the door or anything. He just walked in.

“It is possible no one will come to the match tomorrow,” he said.

“Why would that be? We just took a point in Dublin,” I said, turning on the computer and waiting for it to boot.

“I have here the advance ticket sales,” he said. “We sell 35 tickets so far.”

I looked at him, waiting for the punch line. It never came.

“Thirty-five tickets,” I said. “For the whole town?”

“I am too busy to make joke,” he said. “We sell 35 tickets.”

With that, he left.

I leaned back in my chair, thankful my salary wasn’t dependent on ticket sales. Since I have no salary, it’s not really dependent on anything.

I sighed, and tried to find the most recent clipping on the wall of the office. It’s been a long, long time since anything has gone right at this club and hopefully tomorrow night we’ll change that.

Heading out for training, I told the players what the chairman had told me.

“They don’t believe in you,” I said. That brought the players back to earth pretty quickly.

“We’re going to dress sixteen players with four staff on the bench,” I said, walking between the rows of players as they stretched out prior to training. “We twenty will equal about half the advance ticket sale for tomorrow night. And it’s a damn shame. You guys played your arses off last week and almost literally, you’ve got nothing to show for it.”

I watched their faces for reactions. They were used to adversity.

“But you deserve better,” I continued. That brought some surprised expressions.

“You deserve to win, not for them, but for yourselves. You deserve a reward for some of that passion we saw in the second half last week. I don’t care if the f**king stands are empty, you guys deserve better for yourselves and for each other.”

‘Us against the World’ is a managerial strategy that has been worked to perfection by such luminaries as Sir Alex Ferguson. It has also destroyed more than one team.

Yet, there was a sense of indignation among these players. They felt hard done by after working hard last week with nothing to show for it in terms of support from even their own friends and families.

They couldn’t understand it. I could.

People wanted to know that the UCD result wasn’t a fluke. As strange as that may sound.

But for the whole town to stay away? That was odd.

The players thought so too. They went out and had their best training session in my charge, and probably their best of the season.

Fantastic read, superb, keep at it.

Thanks, MM. I appreciate your readership, and thanks for giving me your first forum post.

___

Irish First Division Match #31 - Kildare County v Wexford

It was sort of embarrassing to take the pitch.

Not because we were bad or overmatched or anything like that – but because there were about one hundred people in the stands and over half were Wexford’s traveling support.

The players were primed and ready, though. Writing the formation on the board in our changing room, those chosen leaned in to get a good look. They were as intense as I’ve ever seen them.

Kildare County (4-2-2-2)

GK Traynor

DL Kinsella

DR Dowling

DC Cotter (Captain)

DC Robinson

DM Hastings

DM McGee

MC Curran

MC Treacy

ST Horgan

ST Flood

S1 Skelly

S2 Foley

S3 Clark

S4 Murray

S5 Martin

Once again, the captain was on the bench. That wasn’t good, but what could I do? Traynor, for all his faults, couldn't be dropped. He had played superbly against UCD.

The opposition was led by Irish u-21 international Jimmy Keohane, who was also their top goalscorer with eight – again, as much as my entire team. Striker Gary Sheehan followed him with seven.

They didn’t look terribly concerned as they warmed up – on the surface, neither team had anything to play for except pride. Ours had been stung – but the best thing I could say about the UCD match was that it reminded the players that we had some pride in the first place.

The match began, and right away the players showed why their townspeople might have been right to stay away.

Cotter and Robinson collided going after a header six minutes into the match, and Cotter’s glancing blow wound up on the boot of defender Paul Rossiter. His mighty effort barely missed the top left corner, and perhaps it was best that we only had about forty home fans in attendance judging by the sarcastic reaction they gave.

Two minutes later, it was Danny Furlong testing us, blowing past Curran like he wasn’t there before missing almost to the same spot Rossiter had. It wasn’t getting any better.

Standing up to get their attention, I simply put both palms downward to try to settle them down. It worked.

I put them to sleep.

Cotter was culpable again, giving up a free kick twenty-five yards from goal. Midfielder Shane Harte, who is officially rated with a value of €500, was worth every one of them with a neat little set piece into the box.

Warren Broaders beat Treacy to the ball in the air, and then beat Traynor to his far post with a header. Thirteen minutes in, we trailed yet again.

The goal was greeted by a golf clap from the Wexford supporters, who were clearly expecting big things from their players. We, on the other hand, got to work.

Cotter was all over the place after their goal, often legally. Broaders went down far too easily in the area in 25 minutes, with their entire contingent screaming at referee Neil Doyle for a penalty that was never given. Couldn’t say I minded that.

Kinsella, bless his heart, wound up in the book just a few minutes later for a full-blooded trip against Broaders. If you can’t beat ‘em, maim ‘em, I guess.

From the ensuing set piece, Danny Furlong whipped in a free kick that was hard, straight as an arrow, and right at Traynor.

Who dropped it.

With Broaders lurking, the keeper’s eyes assumed the size and shape of dinner plates before he managed to, just barely, beat the striker to the ball.

We were playing defense too much with our legs and not enough with our bodies, as Robinson soon learned after yet another trip against Keohane.

We were frankly getting away with murder. As the match ticked over into first half injury time, Cotter got away with another full challenge against Gary Sheehan, which had the few Wexford traveling supporters screaming bloody murder.

I was just screaming. After such a good performance against UCD, we were at sixes and sevens all the way across our back line. We were trying too hard.

We had a couple of crocked players, which didn’t bode well.

Curran had taken a hard knock right before the interval and Horgan was not only crocked but more or less a spectator. I needed to do something about that.

I burned two of my substitutions at halftime, with Clarke and Alan Martin taking their places respectively.

Martin was making his first appearance for me – with a nose for goal but unfortunately not a body for it, he had tallied once in 28 matches to this point.

Yet he was all I had, with Place sitting in the stands with his ankle under ice.

Three minutes into the second half, Martin was already waving for the physio, after taking a kick directly on his right kneecap courtesy of central defender David Breen. Clearly, two teams could play the game we had played in the first half, even if inadvertently.

Martin toughed it out – he had to – and play resumed.

I could sense a bit of an uptick in the intensity of the match in the second half. The fouls were getting harder, and even though I hadn’t said much to the players in the way of picking up their intensity at halftime, they had elected to accept Wexford’s physical challenge.

Finally, Treacy showed some signs of life for us offensively, bursting through the middle and taking the ball directly to goal. Sheehan, who had taken his share of lumps in the match, reacted by grabbing Treacy by his shoulders and pulling straight back.

The effect was just like a clothesline, and the midfifelder’s feet went straight up in the air. He fell heavily on his back, and those few in the stands rooting for the white shirts started to scream.

Neil Doyle approached at a dead run and immediately showed the red card to Sheehan.

Now was our opportunity. Wexford were down to ten and we had a huge momentum swing just waiting to be grasped.

We tried to take immediate advantage, with McGee’s early ball for Flood finding the striker in space at the top of the area. Unfortunately, he misfired and the chance died as quickly as it had been born.

Yet, we thrived against ten, as you might expect. Even for this group.

We held the ball in the attacking third after that, looking for the equalizer. A Treacy corner found the head of Wexford’s Paul Rossiter, but the ball came to Place. His shot was hacked off the line by Richard Fitzgerald, who then cleared wildly under pressure from our rather frantic forwards.

His clearance went straight up into the air, and a mad scramble for the ball ensued. Fitzgerald finally won the battle just outside the area, but Flood now drove an effort off the defender’s leg and behind for a corner.

It was starting to get interesting, and got really interesting when Robinson crashed in from the next corner to drill home a free header to get us level in 64 minutes.

Our celebration was wild, with the momentum all flowing our way. We headed back toward the center circle only to see referee Doyle signaling for a free kick – having disallowed the goal.

After a season of frustration, the players turned as one to the referee. They weren’t happy. I wasn’t happy. In fact, we were incandescent to a man.

There was nothing wrong with the goal.

Our frustration was compounded by the fact that it started to rain. Soggy, wet, miserable and angry, we looked for an equalizer between the raindrops.

Into injury time we went, and the unfortunate Martin now saw his chance. Working with Flood, the two worked a perfect little wall pass that set up Martin ten yards from goal with the defense helpless around him.

Martin shot. He hit the woodwork.

We left the park an angry bunch indeed.

Kildare County 0

Wexford 1 (Warren Broaders 13, Gary Sheehan s/o 54)

A – 107, Station Road, Kildare

Man of the Match – Warren Broaders, Wexford, 7.6

Best I Had – Kevin Cotter, 7.3

I felt defeated.

Even Curry’s couldn’t help with that.

There was no squad celebration this time. I sat alone in a corner at the pub, trying to figure out what in the hell had gone wrong.

I know we aren’t very good. Anyone can see that.

But we had had over half an hour against ten men at home and couldn’t break through.

Well, I mean we had, but the referee hadn’t liked it very much. So he didn’t let us have it.

I couldn’t complain a whole lot about the officiating – after all, Doyle had gotten Sheehan’s call right and given us the opportunity in the first place, and he had denied not one but two penalty shouts from the visitors – but this still hurt.

We had scored fairly, and not gotten credit for it. That hurt. Actually, it sucked.

I took a deep pull from my glass of Guinness and leaned my head back against the wall. Management wasn’t supposed to be like this.

You were supposed to go from strength to strength, right? Isn’t that how it was supposed to work?

The place was about half full and since very few of the patrons had bothered to show up for the match, I got a reasonable amount of space to drown my sorrows before heading back across the Irish Sea to home for the week.

Shelbourne is next for us, at home. The champions-in-waiting lead us by a tidy 73 points in the table. After that, we have two matches to play in the relegation playoffs.

We have our work cut out for us, no doubt about that.

I have to figure out how we’re going to avoid a thrashing right before we play to stay in the First Division. The possibility of the bottom falling out of my team’s morale is very real, and if it happens, it would happen at the worst possible time.

We already know who we will face in the relegation playoffs. Tralee Dynamos, the winners of the Newstalk “A” Championship, will play us over two legs for our spot in the league.

They don’t look half bad. All I’ve seen of them are a few video snippets, but they are going to be a handful for my little side. Those are the matches where we need to stand up and be counted.

First, though, the champions. At the worst possible time.

I looked down at the table and then back into my drink, watching the light brown foam head disappear as I drank.

I kept reliving Robinson’s goal in my mind. Over and over again. For crying out loud, the poor guy had waited a whole season to do something right, and when he finally did, someone took it away from him.

It was a damned shame. But then, football is like that.

I left my money for the ale on the table, and headed for the door to drive my rental car back to Dublin, the first step on my trip home.

Nola looked at me from the other side of the bar with a long face. Even she understood, even if she had avoided me for the whole evening. They knew. They all knew.

I was a failure.

“Bohemians? Really?”

Nakov had given me the first piece of really good news I had received since taking charge. Our request for a parent club had fallen on exactly the right ears. So it was a good phone conversation.

Eleven times champions of Ireland, The Gypsies had outpaced their bitter rivals Shamrock Rovers by twelve points to win the big league this season at a canter.

Nakov’s request for a bigger club to feed us players had been kindly accepted by chairman Robert Dunne, and it had taken me about ten seconds to agree to the arrangement.

Rules allow us to loan up to five players a season, and I am pretty sure I’ll be taking maximum advantage of that rule once the papers are signed.

We even get money out of the deal, which pleased Nakov.

We even get to host a friendly and keep the proceeds, which made him delirious with joy.

And I’ll get players for next year’s team. Assuming we stay in the First Division, they might even be decent players.

If we don’t, it’s a safe bet I won’t be around to enjoy the fruits of Nakov’s labours.

At least it was something to look forward to.

After hanging up the phone at my desk in Blackpool, I returned to my work processing tax forms. I crunched number after number, and before long it became rote.

My mind was elsewhere.

Irish First Division Match #33 / Kildare County v Shelbourne

Talk about a battle of the haves against the have-nots.

Despite the fact that we weren’t haemorrhaging goals any more, the matchup had mismatch written all over it. Even watching them warm up, I saw the same sense of easy confidence I had seen from every opponent we play – even UCD.

It was starting to frost my shorts, to be frank. But until we started doing something about it, there wasn’t much we could do.

Clearly a rearguard action was called for tonight, so starting the match in 4-5-1 was a formality. There wasn’t really anything else I could do. We would play a slow pace to try to gain as much possession as possible and see how much of the game we could kill before they made us pay for our negative tactics.

There wasn’t much cheer in my pre-match team talk – except for the fact that people were supporting us tonight.

To a point. There were double the number of paying customers in the stands from the Wexford match – which got us all the way up to 250 or so. It’s bad when you can count noses in the stands and come pretty close to an accurate count.

The kids have been playing pretty well for us, so I was hoping for one more good game out of them. The only problem is that the relegation playoffs loom at midweek and at the end of next week, so these players are going to have to play three matches in eight days – with some rather horrendous physical conditioning already – to close out the season.

So, as much as I was trying to avoid embarrassment, I had to keep a damper on things for the matches that really matter – the two against Tralee that will decide whether we stay in the league. It’s a tough decision, especially for a guy who doesn’t get paid anything to make them.

Yet as the match kicked off, it seemed to me that the fans in attendance tonight seemed to be a little more intense than they had been. They cared.

Which was good, since my players were stinging from the Wexford match. They felt we should have gotten a point and I couldn’t blame them for that since I agreed.

Yet the opposition this time was dramatically better. Shelbourne’s Premier Division tickets are already punched and they knew it.

They surged forward from the get-go. On-loan striker Daniel Corcoran took a neat little pass from midfielder Ian Ryan and shot wide with just about 45 seconds on the clock.

The groan that arose from our faithful at having been cut to ribbons so early in the match had to have been a familiar sound. They just ran right through us.

It just kept coming, Philip Gorman headed over the bar. Eric Foley strode past both McGee and Robinson, only to be denied by the outstretched palm of Traynor. Corcoran pushed a shot wide. All in the first six minutes.

We did manage to counter, though, and Flood fizzed a shot over the bar to show that there were in fact two teams in the game. For us, though, it was now a question of how long we could hold out.

Gorman tried to answer that question from the ensuing goal kick, but Traynor stopped him too. The keeper was off to a blinder, absolutely necessary for us to survive the match.

At that point, they started to nick us up. McGee limped off for treatment eleven minutes into the match after a collision with his teammate, Foley. While cursing that bad luck, Treacy turned an ankle near the touch line as it started to rain and couldn’t continue.

That brought Clarke on in his place, just before Corcoran headed over the bar again. It wouldn’t have been accurate to say we were under the cosh because it would have been an understatement.

They just kept punching. We just kept getting hit in the face.

Nice and symmetrical that way, I supposed.

Still, though, nothing went into the net. They would advance at will, we’d give them time to size up their effort, and someone would screw it wide or over the top. Every time.

Hastings then went off injured in 38 minutes, meaning I was down two substitutions before the end of the first half, neither of them tactical. This time it was through a challenge, Mark O’Brien sliding through my youngster’s legs without so much as a peep from referee Mark Gough.

Unfortunately, the injury forced me into a substitution of my second midfielder and I didn’t have any left on the bench. Ah, the joys of an amateur club!

Place jogged on to replace Hastings, which meant I had to change formations. Since the 4-5-1 wasn’t working at all, perhaps that was for the best.

The addition of a second striker invigorated us, believe it or not. Despite it seeming like suicide, we moved forward with McGee earning a corner as the half ticked into injury time. The corner, though, merely resulted in another solid chance for Corcoran, who took the ball straight up the field and managed to waste another great chance by shooting over.

Gough whistled for half time and amazingly, it was still goalless.

With two substitutions burned and about six other players on the park who could use a breather, we took the pitch for the second half really up against it.

The first half was spent waiting for Shelbourne to score. When it didn’t happen, we got a measure of confidence from that knowledge.

I hadn’t expected Dermot Keely to burn two of his to even the score.

I hadn’t even been told when the teams took the park that Keely was my club’s original manager upon the club’s formation in 2002. He said he always held a soft spot in his heart for The Thoroughbreds, and led the team to a fifth-placed finish in his only season with the club before leaving for Derry City.

Now, though, he was trying to beat the upstart Matt Livingston, and why shouldn’t he succeed? He had the league champions, he was heading back to the Premier Division, and he should have been able to name his score against his former club.

At that moment, though, I was naming the score and nil-nil was just fine with me.

Paul Shiels and 20-year old Sean Byrne took to the pitch as Keely substituted a defender and a midfielder. I frankly wasn’t sure why he was moving any of his defenders out of the mix since we had hardly tested his bunch on those occasions when we actually held the ball.

No matter. Maybe he was being sporting or something.

Or not. Shiels immediately crunched Clarke after the restart and I wondered if all three of my substitutions would have to be for crocked players. Clarke, though, was able to continue. And so were Shelbourne’s chances at goal.

Traynor blocked a shot by reserve striker Tony Griffiths by smothering it with his rather large body. Robinson turned a cross from Griffiths behind for a corner, and then cleared the set piece. His 6’4” frame was serving us well, even that frame wasn’t always where a defender should be expected to be.

Then it was Traynor saving from David Cassidy’s head in 64 minutes, where it would have been easier for the attacker to score. Brennan put another good cross behind for a corner, and so the beat went on.

But they couldn’t score.

So, to show his frustration, Ian Ryan crocked Place. It was starting to get annoying – and Shelbourne were starting to get a bit too physical.

The amateur side wouldn’t buckle under. So when Clarke went down a second time and this time couldn’t continue, I had to shift to 5-4-1 because I was out of midfielders. And yet, Shelbourne’s onslaught continued.

There was frankly no need for it. Their promotion was secured, while we would play three days hence for our league survival with a team full of crocked players. It wasn’t fair.

Cassidy cleared the crossbar with a mighty drive as the match moved to twelve minutes from time. Robinson went down under a heavy challenge and for a minute I wondered if we’d have to finish with ten on top of it all.

He soldiered on, though, and I found myself up and screaming when McGee was booked for a foul on Shelbourne’s Mark O’Brien.

“My guys are getting stretchered off and this is what happens?” I yelled. With just over 400 fans in the park, everyone could hear me. The reaction from their bench wasn’t kind but then I didn’t care.

We were five minutes from time and hanging on. Kinsella fouled Quigley – and also went into the referee’s book. Red-faced with anger, I shot daggers at both Keely and the officials, keeping my powder dry in case I really needed it.

The fourth official finally held up a sign for four minutes of added time.

“For all the stretchers, no doubt,” I called out, which didn’t make anyone in Shebourne’s colors happy. Like I gave a damn.

All I wanted was for us not to concede – not now. The determination I was seeing from these players was heartwarming. We had no chance to score, not with a single striker and ten men behind the ball.

It was all about manning the pumps.

Then, we broke loose. The counter was beautifully executed, with Kinsella’s long ball finding the run of Flood wide on the left. Too far, in fact, as he flashed a shot wide.

I found it very satisfying, therefore, as the full time whistle went. They had crocked much of my team, but they hadn’t scored. And we had had the last word.

My handshake with Keely was perfunctory. Not that I gave a damn about that either.

Kildare County 0

Shelbourne 0

A – 240, Station Road, Kildare

Man of the Match – Stephen Quigley, Shelbourne (7.5)

Best I Had – Anthony Robinson, 7.3

Telling the players to please take care of themselves was pretty obvious. While Hastings, Treacy and Clarke had all been forced from the match by injury, none of them was serious enough to rule them out of consideration for the vital match at Tralee’s Togher Road.

I figured it would be a good idea to take a week’s holiday for the relegation playoff, and having applied for it shortly after taking the position, the good news came through the day after the Shelbourne match that yes, I could in fact guide the team. Or try to.

On my first day back in the office, Nakov visited to complain about the ticket sales for the Shelbourne match. This is what chairmen do.

He also let me know that he was trying to do a little marketing in and around town for the second relegation playoff leg.

I told the chairman that he had a really good idea, which is what managers do.

He’s hoping to draw a few hundred people to the match where we play for our First Division lives, assuming we stay close enough in the away leg to make the second leg matter.

I think we can do it. Tralee isn’t a bad side, but if we can hold the First Division champions to a goalless draw, then perhaps we can do better against non-league opposition.

The alternatives really aren’t worth thinking about, to be frank.

Naturally, I thought about them anyway, sitting at my usual corner table at Curry’s.

Alcohol is a depressant, so they say, and the thought of ending my fledgling managerial career without so much as a victory was adding to the stack of things already dragging me down.

Nola noticed, which was nice of her. She kept pumping Guinness into me, which was her job, I suppose.

I had enough on my mind, anyway. I worried about Hastings and his ability to play in the first leg with a contusion on his shin that looked really nasty. Clarke was also crocked when the match ended, which may force me away from the formation I am coming to prefer, which is 4-2-2-2. I’m running out of central midfielders.

Somehow that didn’t matter so much when I was drinking, and since I had a hotel room in town to stagger off to after I was done, it didn’t matter as much how much I consumed.

Finally, even Nola noticed.

“You’re here late,” she said. “Don’t you have to go back to Blackpool?”

“You trying to get rid of me?” I slurred.

“Well, it’s coming up to bartime, so yes, I am,” she smiled. “But you should get wherever you’re going and you should do so safely.”

“Kind of you,” I said, sitting up straighter in my chair because if I did that, the remaining ale in my glass could have a straighter path to my stomach and hopefully to my bloodstream.

I could feel the effects of the first three already and though the latter two were laying in my stomach like rocks, they seemed to feel comfortable there.

She kept up my drinking supply in between dodging friendly advances from many of the single men in the pub. Clearly, it was sport for them to make their plays and I had to smile at all that.

Not that it mattered, or that I participated. She hadn’t let me participate, for one. I could respect that.

I also have a habit of making an utter fool out of myself around attractive members of the opposite sex.

It’s happened in every important relationship I’ve ever tried to foster, including one in Blackpool last year. I get embarrassed to think about it.

Her name was Susie Chang. As I drank, I cursed myself for remembering her name, since I was trying very hard to forget it.

There was the whole issue of being nice. I like to be nice. Women don’t seem to like it when men are nice, I guess. So they sort of forget about you after awhile and then they sort of move on to someone who will treat them like garbage.

Then I sort of get upset, and then I … well, now I want to work in Ireland.

So while I admire Nola’s beauty, I’m not going to make an idiot out of myself again. I think she appreciates that.

I’m safe. So tonight she sort of hung around me.

All that was nice. While she tried to draw me into casual conversation, I sat there drawing formations on a soggy napkin and tried to figure out which of my players were both reasonably healthy and reasonably competent to play. This wasn’t something I could afford to get wrong.

“Want one for the … err … the street?” she asked, passing by my table and lingering for a moment.

“What the hell,” I finally said. “The worst that can happen to me is I’ll forget all this stuff I wrote down, or maybe I’ll spill beer all over it.”

She brought the drink and I downed it. Drinking alone is no fun, but I don’t have a list of people to drink with, so that really leaves me with no option.

I paid for the drinks and trudged back to my hotel. Nola watched me go, and turned to the proprietor, ready to close up.

“Doesn’t exactly fill you with confidence, does he?” she asked.

Tralee Dynamos v Kildare County – First Division Relegation Playoff First Leg

They did put their pants on one leg at a time. Or they would have, had they been wearing pants.

After a three-hour coach trip of 250 kilometers across Ireland, that was certainly welcome news. Tralee certainly looked human during the warm-ups.

My players had had the chance to rest aching legs and muscles in the comparative comfort of a very nice coach hired by Nakov. After all, he had realized that shirking on the transport for this series might lead to players unready to play.

That in turn might result in relegation, which would in turn damage the chairman’s pocketbook. Better to spend now than leak money later.

That is, assuming these players could do the business.

They all wanted to play. That was frankly a wonderful sign. Most of them were even healthy enough to try, and considering the reserves available to me, I really had little choice but to let them.

There was Hastings, trying to warm up through his injury, alongside Clarke who was trying to do the same thing. They were bound and determined. They were nicked up, and most of them realized that this was only the first 90 minutes of a 180-minute match.

They were showing pride in themselves and pride in their shirt. At this point, what else really mattered?

They left the pitch after the warm-ups and I gathered them in a circle around me in the changing room.

“Okay, fellows, here we are,” I said, with my usual talent for understatement and eloquence. “You know what got you here, unfortunately, but what I want you to understand tonight is exactly what it is that is going to get you out of here.”

“For a few weeks now, since the UCD match, I’ve sensed a team that could make a breakout. I think that night is tonight. We are playing opposition that we can handle, and we are defending something tonight. We are defending our place in the league. We have something they want.”

After a season of suffering, misery, heartache and repetitive losing, the thought of holding something important seemed to appeal to these players.

“You’ve done everything I could have asked you to do,” I went on. “Except win. Now we are at the stage where we need to win to keep our standing intact. You know what will happen if we don’t. So think positive, and make tonight the night we finally show people what we are made of.”

I now stood in the center of the circle and dropped to one knee.

“Hands in,” I said, extending my hand. The players tightened the circle and surrounded me at the bottom, hands extended to the center.

“Tonight’s the night, fellows,” I said. “On three, win.”

I counted to three, we cheered, and I looked around at the players. They were all smiling.

I sincerely hope you will succeed. (Especially since otherwise the story is over )

Thanks, Mark. I don't see Matt staying in the post without success here.

___

For starters, we were pretty good.

Flood won us an early corner that McGee whipped right into the heart of the six-yard box. It didn’t come to anything but for us to show intent that early in the match was certainly a welcome sign.

We weren’t moving well, at least not in the beginning. We were still shaking off the effects of the Shelbourne match a few days previous, so it took awhile for players whose first avocation is not, after all, football to find their match legs.

Yet you could hardly tell from looking at us. We were actually pretty good, against a team made up of mostly part-timers. As a completely amateur side, we were underdogs here as well, but the point of the matter was that no matter how good Tralee was, they weren’t Shelbourne and they aren’t going to play in the Premier Division next season.

Our boys knew that. To their credit, we hung with them.

Youngster Gordon Curran showed the most intent of any of them, running with spirit and a bit of pace behind the strikers. For this match, the nicks and niggles affecting the team had changed our alignment from the 4-2-2-2 that had worked relatively well to this point into a 4-4-2 diamond, with young Curran slotting in behind Flood and Place.

His insistence on attacking soon paid dividends for us. McGee and Hastings recycled possession for us just in front of the center circle and a neat little ball found Treacy on the left. He slid a ball to the middle – and Curran showed the best positional sense I had yet seen from him, ghosting right between the central defenders.

He took at the ball at the top of the area, had the presence of mind to bring it to control with a deft first touch and had time to size up his shot at Noel Kelly. He slotted the ball to the keeper’s right and had no trouble finding the range.

They were ecstatic, the players were. They were right ahead of me, jumping around like a lunatic in front of the bench. We were ahead nineteen minutes into the match.

We were ahead for the first time in my tenure – and the team led for the first time all season.

It felt wonderful.

Curran, for his part, went from strength to strength. The lad seemed filled with energy, but above all the team itself was filled with hope. There’s no substitute for attitude.

These players knew it, and Curran was off on another gallop down the right of the Tralee defense, hooking a useful ball into the box for Treacy, who unfortunately hit the side netting.

Tralee didn’t seem to have much energy by comparison, and when McGee got a warning from referee Dan Deady for hauling back midfielder Christy McMillan right before halftime, our energy in dissent was greater than the home team’s sense of outrage.

That was a great sign. At halftime, we had held our lead away from home. We could hope.

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 the sixteen-year old'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 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 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)

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. 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 Curry’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 Nora 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 Nora’s eye and gave her a half-smile.

Still enjoying this, Tenthree. If you get past Tralee and decide to carry on into next season, it promises to be a very interesting campaign.

I am still hoping you pull this off, because I would be gutted to see this die.

Fellows, thank you very much. I'm really enjoying playing this team due to the obvious challenge it gives, but writing this story is a surprising amount of fun too. All we need to do is win.

___

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, Nora’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 guy saying ‘I am credit 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.”

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-odd 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 order restored.

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 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 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.