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I’d been looking forward to my retirement. After twenty years as a professional footballer, I was more than ready to ride off into the sunset and run a pub in the age-old tradition of ex-players. As it happened, my retirement lasted all of two weeks before I was approached with an opportunity that I couldn’t turn down: the chance to go home. It still felt strange referring to Gibraltar as “home.” Although I was born here and, in the latter stages of my career, had made twenty-eight appearances for the national side, I had grown up in England. As a navy brat, it was mere luck that led to my being born on the Rock. My father was stationed here and my mother – ever the loyal wife – had followed him during his posting. We moved to Portsmouth when I was three, and nobody ever thought that I would return. I wouldn’t if it hadn’t been for football. I had barely come around from the post-retirement party hangover when the news that would change my plans broke: Hemel Hempstead Town had hit financial troubles. It popped up in the crawl bar on Sky Sports News and, for whatever reason, was the only thing on the screen my eyes could focus on. It was entirely useless information, but it stuck with me longer than it should have. I threw back a couple of painkillers and go back to bed for round two with whatever her name was. A couple of days later – I think – I was rudely awoken by the sound of my phone ringing. She was gone. I couldn’t remember her name. Probably didn’t ask for it – I rarely did. Or needed to. “What?” I grunted into the phone, a mixture of confusion, anger, and feeling like I’d been hit by a car. “Matty,” after a moment of processing, I figured out that it was my agent, Rick, “I’ve got an offer for you.” “I retired, remember? We had a talk, put out a press release, threw a party… Pretty sure you were there, mate.” “I was. They’re not asking you to play. They want you to manage.” “Who?” “Inter.” “Milan?” My mind instantly filled with plans of chasing models and gorging myself into retirement shape on the local cuisine. “Not quite.” A few days later, I was sitting in a fancy restaurant waiting to be interviewed. I don’t know how they even talked me into that, under the circumstances. The news had been bigger than I expected; the demise of Hemel had led to a takeover by a group of ambitious businessmen. In the space of a week – allegedly – deals had been done and the club now known as “Franchise 2” by a large segment of football fans was joining the Vanarama South: Inter Gibraltar were the newest members of the English footballing pyramid. The tiny footballing nation – the place where I was born – now had a representative in the English game. And here I was – Matty Walker, Gibraltar’s favourite footballing son – waiting to be interviewed to lead the project.
Greetings, I have been working on a silly story, trying to immerse myself in a FM17 save. Been getting some really nice feedback form several sites I have been posing to. To the point that some guys even encouraged me to open my own blog thingy to be more organised. He is the LINK. The story itself is very silly, written in a somewhat unique style I may be known for (Ogaburan, on several FM sites). With many pictures, bad puns and creative interpretations of what is going on... The save itself is with Poole form the Vanarama South, who I think are officially the worst team to start in FM according to expectations, and I was looking for a challenge. I also limit myself to being "In character" as a buffoon, and only sign players that the in game scouting system recommends me. Hope you guys will check it out, any feedback is more than welcome as I am humbled anyone even cares. Cheers, Oga