An American Pilgrimage (vbulletin edition)

[copperhorse21]

Thanks again for weighing in. Obviously, you care as much as I do about that result. I like that. Here's more for you.

Chapter 73

Monday, 18 August 2008, Fitness Center, Croft Park

“Horse Loses Lead Late in Match”. The headline stared back at me cruelly. I bit my cheek until I tasted blood. I let it fill in my mouth, warming itself and mixing with my saliva. My jaw clenched tight, grinding my teeth back and forth until I could hear them squeak against one another from the friction. My pits broke out in sweats, dripping down the length of my arms until I could smell the filth of my whole stinking self.

I slammed my fist into the heavy bag and it moved. It felt good. The clear packing tape I had wrapped around the bag to protect the newspaper article remained intact, mocking me and my incompetence.

“We had the f**king ball hacked off the line! In the bloody dying moments of the match!” I pummeled the bag again with a flurry of punches shouting, “F**k!” with every smash. “F**k! F**k! F**k!”

Flecks of blood covered the tape, but the headline refused to budge, withstanding the force of my blows without a scratch. I smashed them into the bag hard enough to split the skin on my knuckles wide open because I refused to wear protection. I was in such a rage, I didn't care. I pounded my blood into the taped bag, smearing its surface more with every blow that I heaved into it over and over again, hoping to vent the venom that had festered inside my veins over the long and tortuous weekend.

My hands went numb and they swelled, but I still had more anguish to exhaust. Sweat had long since formed on my head and ran down my face and into my eyes. I wiped at it, my own blood mixing with the sweat and smudging on my face. I didn't care. No one was going to find me here, not at this time of morning.

Robin had cleared out and found somewhere to take a walk because my temper was so vile following the match. I didn't care. To lose the match being that close was despicable. To have the papers sprawl it across the headlines was salt in my open wounds. It wasn't right.

Sunday, my mood was just as foul so she'd found a film to watch and then skulked in a used bookstore to early evening while I foamed at the mouth in our own apartment, seething with hate and vengeance and vowing to go down fighting and kicking and screaming and biting and scratching and clawing as much as humanly possible.

Our team had fought valiantly against Barrow. They'd done everything I asked of them and more, especially towards the end of the match when I could see they were dog tired, but still forged onward, refusing to stop trying to score. Searching for the killing blow, we'd exposed ourself to the counter attack and got burned.

Two points vanished with Barrow's late strike into the back of our net. Two points that I desperately needed to keep my dream alive. Two points that would have put me just two points short of the six required to keep my post.

Baker, McMillan, Ferguson, all told me to shake it off. “We'll get them next time.” they offered, pats on the back to boot. It didn't help. It didn't change the outcome of the match. In a career where the reasons don't matter, only the results, their sympathy fell short.

I recalled Fenton's last words to me. “I'm gonna be here to watch you run this club into the ground.” and decided to give my bloody knuckles and swollen hands a rest. Instead, I started kicking the bag as hard as I could, driving my instep into the side of it and into the blood smears painted across the headline wishing his photo was there instead.

“I will never quit! Never! Ever! F**king! Quit!” A heavy kick followed every vow until my foot swelled too from the thunderous impact.”

From behind me, I heard a familiar voice call out to me, “You done, yet?” I spat the last mouthful of blood directly onto the headline and turned around, my chest heaving and my breath rasping for air.

“What the F**k do you want, Baker?”

“I want you to take a pill for that temper!”

“I ain't taking any more pills, they sap the living will from a man and make him soft.”

“Not the blue ones!” and he winked at me with a shi*-eating grin on his face. I laughed. It escaped before I could stop it. But I quickly recovered, replacing it once more with my scowl.

“Okay, Copper. I can see you've got your game face on and won't hear of it. Fine. Whatever. It's not my place to say how you should deal with your anger. At least it's not out in public and no one will have extra work to do to fix the pitch you've torn up, either.”

“How'd you know about that?”

“Copper, I've been around this game a while. You seem to keep forgetting that. I've seen managers come and go, players come and go, officials come and go, even fans come and go. However, one thing remains the same for those who are champions.” He paused and walked over to the heavy bag to inspect it closer. He nodded his head when he saw the headline and turned back to me, saying nothing.

I waited for him to say it, but he wouldn't. He just stood there, almost mocking me, but I knew him better than that. He was waiting for me to acknowledge that I was finally willing to listen to what he had to say. I fought the urge to submit, but curiosity got the best of me. “Okay, okay! I give up. What remains the same?”

“The absolute insatiable will to win. You've got it in spades.”

[copperhorse21]

Chapter 74

Saturday, 23 August 2008, The Lamb Ground, Tamworth

A dry day dawned on my future at Tamworth's Stadium, The Lamb Ground. Last season, they'd finished 5th in the Blue Square North. The season before that, they'd played in the Blue Square Premier, the league above ours. Even though they'd been relegated and had been eliminated in the playoffs last season, they had kept most of their team intact and were motivated to repeat their achievement. We were merely a stepping stone in their path.

I had different plans. My team had trained well all week and was ready to take them on. We knew we were on the cusp of shifting momentum around toward our favor and our youthful side brimmed with optimism. The arrivals of Hines and Grounds had done wonders to shore up the leaks in our back line. Craddock was an attacking assassin on the training pitch, despite being challenged by his teammates daily. We just needed a midfielder to tie the two lines together and I'd worked all three of Middlesbrough's players during the week to get Herold Goulon, a hot prospect French midfielder to commit to coming here.

All three raved about him, but also knew he'd be keeping his prospects open at clubs competing in leagues higher than ours. However, I believed that if we could get him to agree terms with us, he'd enjoy what we could offer him in Blyth. All three of them commented to me separately that if we could pull off a victory against Tamworth on the road, it would be enough to convince Goulon his season belonged here wearing the green and white of the Spartans.

Our Middlesbrough prospects weren't the only ones worked over during the week. Neil Baker had grilled me daily about my “anger management” issues. He said, “If you don't get that s**t worked out, you're gonna lose it when it matters, and then, it won't matter anyway because you'll be made redundant faster than you can spell it.”

I argued back, “Look, you told me that I had an absolute insatiable will to win. My temper comes with the territory. Maybe if I'd shown it more back in the States, I'd have won more matches?”

He rallied, “I can't speak for your time in America, but I can tell you from my experiences here in England, you can have a temper all you want. What matters is if you have control of it. You are walking the very fine line between Nutter and Genius.”

“Look, things will change with a win. You and I both know that.”

“I know that we need a win. I know that your job depends on it. However, your future lies in your ability to understand the subtleties of control.”

“I'm in charge. I'm in control. When the team wins, it's the player's fault. When the team loses, it's mine. What's so hard about that?”

“Hell Copper, it's more than that and you know it. It's about learning what you actually can control. What's your fault? What's just s**t? Change what you can and accept what you can't.”

“You sound like a twelve stepper at Alcoholics Anonymous. I'm not a drunk.”

“Fine. Be a Nutter, then. But don't come whining to me when you're ushered out by security. Besides, you are like an alcoholic because you're in denial right now. You've got a problem and you won't admit it.”

“Right. Besides needing a win, what's my problem?”

“You're problem is that you've got so much poison in your body because you never let it out, it's eating you alive inside. Then, it explodes when you can't keep it contained. Vent it sooner so the pressure doesn't build up and rupture when you can't afford it.”

“And how do suggest I do that?” I challenged.

“As a manager, we can only control so much that happens on the pitch. The rest is left up to the players. That's stressful. You've got to find a healthy way to alleviate it before it becomes a problem.”

“Again, how do you suggest I do that? You don't burn off stress.”

“That's because I know already what I can control and what I can't. You haven't and, until you do, you'll be a ticking time bomb.”

Early this morning, Robin had reinforced Baker's life lesson a bit more succinctly.

“Copper, get a physical hobby outside football. I'm not going to keep putting up with a whiny cry baby whenever the team doesn't win a match you think it should.”

“I'll think about it.”

“I didn't marry a thinker. I married an achiever.”

“Alright. Alright. Enough already. I've already been ragged on all week by Baker and now your onto me.”

“Baker's a smart guy. Are you going to listen to him?”

“Yes. I'll listen to him.”

“Good. Now are you going to write Rob Ridgway, or are you going to keep thinking about that, too?”

“Look. I'll do that too. But after the match, okay?”

“Copper, he's been where you are and climbed to the pinnacle of professional football in England. He's a premiership manager and he's sitting undefeated in his first season. He's done what you dream. Quit resisting. It's time to tame the wild stallion. Submit, then win.

[Spav]

Once one win comes they will flood in.

He's right there, Copper. I have a Blue Square South game going as Sutton United and after failing to win in my opening twelve game I'm now on a nine-match unbeaten streak. Same players and tactics, but things finally turned around.

KUTGW with regards to the story, mate.

[Macross]

He's right there, Copper. I have a Blue Square South game going as Sutton United and after failing to win in my opening twelve game I'm now on a nine-match unbeaten streak. Same players and tactics, but things finally turned around.

KUTGW with regards to the story, mate.

Indeed, I can second that as a manager of Solihull Moors in your own BSN league. Woeful start to the season but after seven indifferent games finally a streak of unbelievable eleven wins back to back. Had the same problem as you - shoring up he gap in midfield (playing 4-3-1-2 with a defensive midfielder) but improved on that by signing two young Villans (got Villa as a parent club) on a three month loan to turn the tables on every team in the league. I've suffered three of my worst defeats in both seasons to one particular Robert Dale (6 goals in four games against us) and your Spartans.

Keep up with your excellent story and good luck!

[copperhorse21]

Readers, thanks for the encouragement for Copper. Although your careers show progress at the moment, my game play has been completed for the story and I can do nothing about any results except write them down for others to read.

Chapter 75

Saturday, 23 August 2008, The Lamb Ground, Tamworth

Submit. Then win. Robin's words defied reason. Winning is the opposite of submission. It rails against the very ideology of the word, yet she spoke it with such fire and fury in her fine way of succinct expression that I needed time to think about it. Time I didn't have at the moment with Dale staring at me across the training table where I sat on an overturned plastic pail scribbling the starting roster on the official's form.

“Yes?” I asked him.

“Well? Am I getting the start?”

How could I tell him? He'd done so much for me this season, especially helping me sort out the mess with the mass evacuation and invitations that followed as we brought new players into the club. Craddock had replaced him in the lineup and neither of us liked it. Not because he couldn't play, but because Dale was benched because he could play exceptionally well. However, at the moment, Bell was playing better than he'd ever done since I'd been on staff. I didn't want to mess up a good combination, but I didn't need my captain losing his faith in his Gaffer, either.

“Captain, it's a tough...”

“Forget it. I'll wait my turn.” His dejected look staring down at me as he towered above my hunched form spoke volumes of his feelings.

My heart tugged a bit, reminding me I still had one, but I kept eye contact and said, “Captain, I know it's tough to sit, especially being the captain of this squad. However, you and I both remember what I said at the start of this season.”

Dale nodded his head in compliance. “It sounded better in theory than in practice, especially since I didn't figure I'd be the one looking in.”

It was true. I'd told the players that if they got the chance to get on the pitch, it was theirs to keep it as long as they played to the standards we'd established as a staff. Bell's form was slightly better than Dale's just as Craddock arrived and so he was put on the bench. Although he's been on the bench, he's played a key role in helping Craddock work well with Bell. However, I also recognized that every competitor wants a second chance to shine in the spotlight and he was one of my most fierce. He deserved it. Soon.

“Your day will come and then you will have control over your own playing time on the pitch.” I offered as small solace.

Dale nodded and then said, “I'll get the team gathered together for your talk.”

I nodded and finished the roster.

A few minutes later, I stood before the assembled staff and players ready to give one speech, but changed my mind at the last minute to give another.

“Team, each of you is important to this squad. All of us have roles to play. Some have been regular starters and are now coming on as substitutes. Some have been substitutes and are now starters. Some are brand new to the team and already play like veterans.”

I searched their faces and saw mostly stony masks and fidgety feet. Eye contact was hard to come by. No one liked me speaking of the elephant in the room.

I ignored them and said what I needed to say. “A team is only as strong as the sum of its individuals. Each of you brings something to the table. You have to or you won't get fed. Tamworth knows what it's like to feed off the scraps and get relegated. They also know what it's like to taste the best portions and be in the playoffs.”

I checked their faces again and found I had more eye contact.

“Put yourself in Tamworth's shoes. You've tasted the sweet nectar of honey that victory brings. You've been on the threshold of promotion only to have the door slammed in your face during the playoffs. How hungry would you be for the chance for promotion once more?”

More nods and shakes of the heads. Rustling shoes and bouncing boots echoed off the tile floor. I had their attention.

“Imagine you face the doormats of the league from last season with a manager whose failed to win a single match in his last 18, including friendlies. You're at home with the support of the fans behind you. What do you think? A walk in the park? Sure you do.”

More acknowledging nods of approval.

“Well we're the other team. We're the doormats in their eyes. We're the ones who get no respect. We're the ones who've fed on scraps like wild dogs and we're hungry. We're sick and we're hungry. We want to taste the sweet nectar of victory. We want to take advantage of their soft attitude with a hard desire to achieve something special in front of their home support.”

More energetic bouncing and mouthed silent vows of purpose.

“We came two minutes short of victory last match. Two minutes. We hammered away at our opposition and let our guard down for one run against us in the back and we paid a bitter price. Remember the feelings? I sure do. I want us to be on guard. I want us to pursue victory with purpose. I want us to do it with honor. With spirit. The Spartan Way. Never stop striving for valor even with your final breaths. Are you with me? Who wants victory!

“Spartans!” They chorused and we stood up ready for battle.

[Kewell08]

The white elephant in the room?

Everybody loves a mixed metaphor! Great story. I'd wish you good luck but from the sounds of it, it's too late... Ah, who cares. Good luck anyway!

[copperhorse21]

Kewell, glad to entertain, but I'm still wracking my brain unsuccessfully to find the right metaphor for the above situation. Oh, wait--is it "gorilla" in the room?

Anyway, here's the match!

Chapter 76

Saturday, 23 August 2008, The Lamb Ground, Tamworth

Kevin Mattacks, the center official blew his whistle to start the match and I paced the sidelines hoping to see an inspired performance from our squad.

My assistant coach, McMillan, stood behind me in one place and talked at me as I passed back and forth in front of him. He quietly voiced his concerns as to how we'd fair against strong, consistent opposition, but I muttered that I felt we'd do okay. One thing was certain, I'd find out who could play for real.

The match was a struggle and I was pleased because it meant Tamworth wasn't walking over us as predicted in the papers. We bent where we needed to, but we didn't break. However, we couldn't gain much ground either against their tactical set.

In the 18th minute, Tamworth had a chance inside the area, but Hines elevated and won the header, knocking it out of bounds behind the goal.

The rest of the first half felt like trench warfare, with both teams dug in and a stalemate on the pitch.

Just before the half, Craddock broke free from his man with plenty of room to run. He approached the goal and shot a hard knuckler over the keeper's head. It dipped, but not enough, clanging off the crossbar before the official could whistle him for offsides.

Angry on both counts, I kicked the ground and spun around to look at my bench for a second opinion about the call. No luck. Again, without film to watch, we'd have to trust Mattack's accuracy.

Craddock's shot woke Tamworth up and they marched down the very next attack and managed to get off a shot that Hines deflected over the goal off his head. Hines had won nearly everything in the air and was definitely making an impression on me today.

In the dressing room, I approached the second half with much the same attitude as the opening one. “Spartans, we're fighting valiantly out there. They've hardly had a sniff at goal. And the times they have, Hines has stopped them nearly singlehandedly. I'm pleased with the effort and know that we can continue it for another 45. Be patient. We're beginning to frustrate them. They've committed to making some questionable tackles out there and I'm going to work the officials however I can to make them protect us better out there.”

In the second half, the officials must have agreed with my assessment of Tamworth's tackling. Three times we earned free kicks, the third only three minutes in. It was close enough to score, so I called Craddock's number to take it. He whipped in a free kick around the wall, but Dunbavin saw it in time to make the save, but not before our entire side and supporters gasped in anticipation.

Tamworth finally managed their first shot on target 55 minutes into the match. Tamworth's Hotchkiss found his way around Jordan Smith to fire a shot at Evans on his debut. Evans made a fine save to keep our scores level. This time, Tamworth's sounded their emotions.

Baker started to hover near me around the 60th minute. I sensed his presence, but again, ignored his unspoken wishes. We were playing well and I didn't see the need for a lineup change. To his credit, Baker said nothing, but we both knew what he wanted to do.

Tamworth blinked first and made two switches. They replaced a midfielder with one listed as more an attacking midfielder and they also replaced a defender, whom Craddock had run into the ground with his merciless runs up the pitch.

We won the ball for a throw-in on the 66th minute. Grounds made overlapping run up the left side. Boyle, also in his league debut, made the throw to him. Grounds elevated, and flicked a header on blindly up towards the diagonal run of Craddock. Craddock had responded slowly to the quick throw because he was still pulling up his socks from Tamworth's most recent hard tackle.

As a result of this delay, Tamworth's Vaughn intercepted the flick-on, took one touch and launched a rainbow pass blindly forward and long up the field from inside his own half to narrowly beat Craddock's closing down pressure. As soon as the ball was struck, everyone on Blyth turned to watch it.

It sailed almost fifty yards in the air before it struck the ground behind Evans in the area and bounced into the goal. Everyone stood in shocked amazement, including Vaughn himself. The delayed exuberance of Tamworth's supporters signaled how unexpected the goal was, but it didn't stop them from cheering once they realized the fluke goal was going to stand.

Tentative cheers from Tamworth's teammates rubbed salt in my wounds, which were now rent open and bleeding. Down 1-0 on the road with about 25 minutes remaining, the announcer informed the crowd that Vaughn's goal was the first of his career!

“Bollocks!” I swore loud enough for the fourth official to hear. His looked earned an immediate apology from my end and I continued to swear under my breath instead.

I rushed over to Baker and McMillan. “What the hell are the odds on that sixty-five yard fluke goal?”

Both of them shrugged their shoulders in disbelief and my marching continued. I hollered out to the squad, “Find another gear! Let's get this one back.”

I made a couple of substitutions. Dale came on for Bell and Boateng came on for Dogun in the center of the pitch. We tried to come back, but their lucky long ball had knocked the wind out our sails and we lacked the ability to find a way through their defense the rest of the match, despite having two chances broken down during extra time.

Dejected for the second time in two matches. The final whistle sounded like an owl calling my name. Two matches remained before my owner's deadline and I only had two points to show for our season.

Despondent and angry, I kept my end-of-match comments very short. “No sense beating a dead horse, but we've been dealt some crap cards these past two matches. It's easy to give up and throw in the towel believing the footie gods have it out for us, but we can't. We've got to see it through to the end. I believe in you. You held a playoff calibre team to three shots on target all match and one of them was lucky enough to win the Lottery. Strap the boots back on and get to the pitch tomorrow for an emergency training session. No footballs allowed.”

I went outside looking for Fenton.

[Kewell08]

Elephant in the room is correct. White elephant, though, is a different saying: "a valuable possession which its owner cannot dispose of and whose cost (particularly cost of upkeep) exceeds its usefulness."

Wikipedia's first line in the article says "Not to be confused with 'Elephant in the Room'" so I guess you aren't the only one...

On the story... Here's trouble.

[sirdez24]

Elephant in the room is correct. White elephant, though, is a different saying: "a valuable possession which its owner cannot dispose of and whose cost (particularly cost of upkeep) exceeds its usefulness."

Ie - Emile Heskey.

[copperhorse21]

Kewell, thanks for educating me. I'll fix it.

Chapter 77

Saturday, 23 August 2008, The Lamb Ground, Tamworth

I headed for the door to the dressing room, venom coursing through my veins. Baker approached me, but I shoved past him with a brusque “Get the hell out of my way!” He grabbed hold of my arm, but I shook it free and spun out of his grip only to bump into another of my coaches, John Spencer.

“Hey! What's going on?” I swept him aside too and continued on toward the door, fighting to breathe through the burning in my chest.

I heard Baker's voice call to me, “Fine! P*ss it all the F**k down the drain! It's your own damn funeral!”

I raised my right hand above my head and, as my left was slamming into the door's release bar, I showed Baker my middle finger.

“Sod off yourself!” Baker shouted back as I threw open the door, knocking it into the security personnel stationed outside the door.

“What the hell, mate?” He barked, standing aside and rubbing his shoulder.

I scanned the crowd looking for the bastard I knew was lying in wait for me. He wasn't going to pounce on me unawares anymore. No way. Today, it was my turn to be the hunter and I'd dictate the terms of our engagement. The son-of-a-bitch wasn't going to get away with any of his shenanigans. Not after the match I'd just suffered through.

I wheezed some more in raspy breaths and searched for my victim. The pounding of my heart rattled against my chest, struggling to bust the cage of bones restricting it. Come on! Where the hell are you?

My head throbbed with pain and sweat beaded on my brow and face, cascading down in rivulets from my exertions. Still, I searched for my nemesis hellbent on destruction. I'd purge the venom from my body once and for all.

There! I see you motherf***er! Are you ready for me?

I strode forward through the crowd knocking people aside and rolling up my sleeves while I made a path straight toward him and his entourage of wannabes and has beens.

My vision hazed over and I struggled to see his s**t eating grin clearly. I blinked repeatedly to clear it, but it remained ultra-bright before it started to darken.

I felt sick to my stomach, waves of nausea roiled inside searching for a way out. Come on! Not now! I've got a pounding to mete out.

I tried to move forward, but I got hit in the shoulder by a drink. I spun to see who the pr**k was who thought it funny to throw stuff at me. Maybe I'd use them as a warm-up before the main event began?

Before I could focus, a fist slammed hard into my chest. I raised my arms to block it too late and exposed my gut for the second blow. It knocked the wind out of me and I bent over doubled up from the pain and lost my balance completely, falling down to one knee.

I looked at who assailed me, but my vision had gone dark. My left arm now throbbed with pain too. How the hell did that get hit? I couldn't see who punched me, but I could hear them shouting at me.

“Copper, Stop it this minute! What the hell is wrong with you?”

I turned my head in Robin's direction, but couldn't see her. The pounding in my chest hurt even worse now and I clutched at the pain.

“Damn, you hit hard.”

“I'll do whatever it takes to stop you.”

I tried standing up, but couldn't, and fell back down on both knees. Why can't I stand up?

“Copper! Oh my God! You're hurt! What's going on?” I felt her join me on the ground at my side. She clutched at my arms and tried to help me up, but I was powerless, too weak to even assist her.

“It's my heart.” I rasped between gasping breaths.

“Dear God! MEDIC!”

[O\'Hara_fan]

Oh my god, this is tense now, can't wait for the next update, what will happen...

[blowcrapup]

Oh god. Nice twist. Its looking like I'm going to be sat around waiting to see how this pans out.

[The_shocker7]

i think he's killing off the character and story as PES 2009 is out this week......

[Thepathtoamen]

Oh no. Didn't see this one coming. :-(

[nette000]

Neither did I, but it is a way to dispose of a manager citing healt reasons, to keep all sides less unhappy. But we will hear from our great man himself that I am wrong (or right).

[viperk1]

To be honest, it's impossible for copperhorse to get rid of his character - Copper Horse has featured

in September in "Rob Ridgway's 'Rat Pack.'"

Which means two things...neither of which I care to divulge here.

KUGTW, Copper!

[copperhorse21]

Trivial fact...An American Pilgrimage is 108,035 words after the following post.

Question: Does someone who knows please share with me how many pages that would that be if it were published on paper in a mass paperback novel?

Feedback to prior posts: Wow! I'm surprised that I caught so many of you, my most vocally loyal fans, offguard with this twist considering the foreshadowing I thought obvious. However, I am the author, not the reader. Many of you have skirted the truth, but not all of it completely. Please, read on to discover the answers to your questions and suggestions...

Chapter 78

Sunday, 24 August 2008, My Apartment, Blyth

I rested on the floor while Robin telephoned our families back in the States. During her entire conversations, she'd talk and watch me while she sat near me at our card table. She'd been vigilant since our arrival back at our efficiency and it annoyed me.

The phone had been ringing off the hook. Some supporters offered us their supportive prayers and good wishes while others delighted in my near death and cursed me for bringing devastation to their beloved club. Fortunately, Robin was in her element, fielding all the questions with the tact and respect they deserved. Kindness for the good ones and a razor blade tongue for the bad.

She wanted to silence the ringer, but I refused. “Remember when you told me to go through the emails, both good and bad?”

“Yes, but this is different. You almost died, yesterday.”

“I did not.” I replied.

“Right. What'd the physician have to say, again?”

I hesitated and rebelled before I finally admitted, “I could count myself fortunate this time. Maybe the next time will be different.” I hated fighting with her. She always won.

A man must have his pride. However it seemed, since the post-match incident at The Lamb Ground, I didn't have much pride anymore.

While wires wound their way to monitors and the medical staff whisked in and out with their diagnoses, Robin had wormed the full truth out of me.

She had judged correctly when she clocked me with her combination that knocked me off my legs and onto my knees in public. I would have pounded Fenton senseless or gone down trying. Either way, I resolved, I wasn't going to take things laying down anymore. Well, that is, except for today while I followed doctor's order with my personal Nurse Ratchett standing guard over me.

Robin hung up the phone and I took the opportunity to tell her my latest thoughts. “You hit hard!” And I pointed to the bruise she'd left on my face.

She ignored my lame joke. “You deserved it!”

Fine, if you're going to play it straight. “Why did I deserve to get dropped right there near the stands?”

“Because I saw the look in your eyes. I'd never seen such hate! Your face was red with rage and sweat slicked your brow. Now, I realize that those were the added bonus signs of your heart attack.”

“It was mild. More of a warning really.”

“But what if it wasn't? What if you died right there on that ground in front of me? What would have been your last living thoughts? Of revenge? Of love?”

“Stop it. You're being dramatic.”

“I'm being dramatic? Was I the one who went full-blown Nutter and stormed out of the dressing room with the singular purpose to kick the ass the of the man I'd already fired because I'd just lost a match?”

Ignoring how foolish she made it sound, I countered, “It's not just one match. I've told you that already. I've been telling you that for weeks, nearly months. It's the collective losses that have gnawed holes in my spirit.”

She rolled her eyes at me. “Save the drama for your Mama! You've lost plenty of matches before. In fact, you've never even managed to have a winning season. So, why is it different now?”

“Why? YOU'RE asking ME why? What, you don't know?”

She groaned and moved to prepare my medicine. When she brought it back to me, I knew I was in trouble. I could see it in her eyes and I was powerless to stop it.

“Dammit, Copper! Don't be ignorant on top of stubborn. You already know that I know full well why it's different now. Quit pussy-footing around and, for once, be honest with yourself and voice it out loud for the both of us to hear. We've been married for ten years.

Panicked by what I knew I felt inside, I asked, “Can we forget about it? Maybe talk about something else?”

“Ass! Fine, let's go back to what the doctor said. Remember?”

I took the lesser of two evils, but still dug in my heels passively. “He said it was stress-related.”

“That's all you got out of that?”

I nodded, but knew it wasn't an adequate response.

“Copper, the doctor made it damn clear that if you continued to manage football without making major changes in your life, you'd run the risk of another potentially fatal heart attack.”

“I can handle it.”

“YOU can handle it?”

“Yes, I can handle it.”

“Then why did you ask me to work as your assistant? Why is the Board having a closed meeting this very day to discuss your future and ours? Why aren't you at the emergency training session you'd forced on the team following the match which Neil told me about?”

I didn't say anything. I took my medicine instead.

“What, cat got your tongue?”

The phone rung, interrupting her challenge.

“I swear Copper, you will face your fear and voice it.”

[Kewell08]

This is brilliant. Keep it up Copper!

[Thepathtoamen]

Kutgw! :-)

[blowcrapup]

Copper lives! KUTGW!

[O\'Hara_fan]

How the hell are them two still together after the turbulence? I can see Blyth is not a good place to go for marriages.

As for your question, I believe that amount of words would be considered to be above the number needed for a story to be classed as a novel, as far as I am aware, though if you are intrested in putting it into the novel, surely the publishers would tell you if its decent enough.

[Thepathtoamen]

You should definitly try and get this published. I have really enjoyed rading it and I'm sure that football fans who are not into FM would also enjoy reading it. Check it out and see what happens. :-)

[blowcrapup]

I think you should go for it as well. Having just googled it I got that the Publishers request an average of between 80k and 120k words.

Most publishers look for "standard length," from first-time writers especially-for them it's just a ballpark figure to let them know you have some sense of pace (internally) and the novel market (externally). It usually amounts to 80,000-120,000 words.

At bottom, though, the better rule of thumb is "as many words as it takes to get your story told." If that number is significantly lower than 80,000, be aware that some folks will put in a class other than the novel.

From

[copperhorse21]

Faithful supporters, your kind comments make you worthy of replica jerseys on Copper's behalf, but as you've read in the story, his money's a bit scarce at the moment. As far as publishing goes, a lot hinges on this story's conclusion. I'm delighted you think it worthy of an attempt. Who knows what the future will bring, for me (as an author) or for Copper (as a manager). Please read on to find out more...

Chapter 79

Sunday, 24 August 2008, My Apartment, Blyth

Robin answered the phone, “Hello?”

I watched her from my back, wondering whether or not she'd be accepting sympathy or burying her hatchets with the blade up.

“I'll get him.” She handed the phone down to me and mouthed, “It's Bobby.”

I panicked, hoping it was merely a sympathy call, but Robin's expression was neutral. Fearing the worst, I said, “Hello, Bobby.”

“Copper, glad you're upright. Bit of an awkward position I find myself in right now. I thought I'd call you to let you know the latest with the club.”

“Very well. Go ahead and tell me the news.”

“As you know, the Board had an emergency meeting to determine the course of action the club wants to take. The reporters have been trawling the phone lines and hovering around our offices to get to the bottom of this.”

“I wish they'd have worked this hard when the club was vandalized.”

“We do too. But, as you already know, vandalism, no matter how heinous, is less print worthy than a heart attack following a loss, especially when you're knocked down by your own spouse.”

Bobby didn't need to remind me of the facts. However, I was relieved that he remained ignorant of the motives behind Robin's barehanded attack on me. Those motives would remain a lover's secret that each of us would take to our graves far off into the future.

“So, what's the damage? Are they looking for a way to remove me while looking politically correct?”

“Why, yes. They are.”

“I noticed you said, 'they'. Does your perspective differ from theirs, as usual?”

“Yes. But I do want to inform you that they have severe reservations about your abilities to lead this team, especially considering your dry spell in the win column.”

“What? They can't wait until the end of the month? They, and you, promised me I had until the end of the month to get 6 points and turn a profit. Has the Board selectively forgotten their promise?”

He paused, silence filling the line while I waited patiently for some truth to replace the void.

“The Board could care less about their promises. They want you gone tomorrow, if possible. They've already approached McMillan about taking over the club. Unofficially, of course.”

“So that's it? Walk away with my tail tucked between my legs and slink off out of town?” My blood pressure wanted to spike, but couldn't because of the fresh medications I'd just swallowed a short time ago.

“Not exactly. They are willing to offer you a severance package. Do you want to hear what they are willing to offer?”

I looked at Robin as she sat tensely on the edge of the sleeping bags spread out on the floor. Her tea had gone cold a long time ago and her jaw was set so tight, I didn't think she'd be able to open it wide enough to sip it even if it were still hot. She gestured, “Go on.”

Nodding affirmatively at her, I spoke into the phone, “Give it to me straight, Bobby.”

“Very well. They are willing to pay you the balance of your salary for this season, approximately $25,000 USD to resign.”

I let the number sink in while Robin listened. She shook her head and whispered to me, “Not good enough.”

“Bobby, I'm not going down without a fight. You know that.”

“I told them you'd refuse. They made a contingency for that as well. They are willing to offer you $55,000 USD as severance for the balance of your contract if you agree to walk away citing health reasons and you cannot accept any more jobs in the BSN for the next two seasons.”

This time, I was the one who filled the line with silence. 55K for walking away was a very tempting offer. Robin and I could go back to the States with some seed money for starting over and we might be able to get back to teaching right away, although it would be with new school districts as we'd already resigned from our previous posts for me to remain at Blyth after June 30, 2008. Yes, I'd be walking away from Blyth a loser, but it's not like any of my staff, players, or supporters would be seeing me ever again.

Robin pointed at her watch and mouthed, “We need time to discuss this.” I shook my head negatively, but she pointed at hers and said, “Think!”

I delayed making a decision with both of them. What was there to think about? My assistant manager had already been approached for my job. My Board, with the exception of Bobby, couldn't kick me out quick enough. My players couldn't find a way to win with the gods of football throwing fluke circumstances and controversial calls at us every match out of spite. All signs pointed to “walk away with your dignity intact.”

“Bobby, can we get back to you tomorrow?”

“Unfortunately, Copper, you've only got an hour.”

[Thepathtoamen]

Thats not fair. You can't decide the future of your life in an hour!! Well Robin can but still! :-p

[O\'Hara_fan]

I see the story in a different light now Copper...

Well, its one hell of a tough decision. I'd stay cos you've still got the backing of the big guy in charge, your showing promise, but $55k is not a bad amount of money, what £27k. Hard choice.

As always, love the cliffhangers.

[blowcrapup]

Don't do it. See out the end of the month then move club .

[copperhorse21]

Fellas, there's a lot that can be done in an hour. Read on...

Chapter 80

Sunday, 24 August 2008, My Apartment, Blyth

I stood up from the floor and stepped back toward the phone. Robin offered her hand to accept it, but I pushed her arm away and slammed the earpiece onto the receiver so hard, I heard it crack. Looking down, I saw the damage and ripped the receiver away from the wall cord and threw it across the room at the door. It fractured open from the force and lay in pieces on the floor. I opened our junk drawer and grabbed the hammer we kept inside. Kneeling on the floor, I hammered the large pieces into small ones while Robin sat at the table watching me destroy the phone beyond recognition.

When I stopped to catch my breath, Robin asked, “Are you finished?”

Catching her glance, I nodded affirmatively, my hands resting on my knees.

“Then give me the damn hammer!”

I placed the hammer carefully in her hands and said, “Sorry, but it had to be done. Stupid, sons-of-bitches!”

“Move!” And she shoved me.

I lunged backward just before she smashed the hammer's head into the relatively intact earpiece still left on the floor near the debris. When she finished destroying it, she sat next to me breathing heavily from her own exertion, a smile spreading wide across her lovely face.

Shocked at her outburst, I said nothing, not sure how to react.

“Copper, if you're going to start something, you better finish it.” She smiled and grabbed the lapels of my pajamas with both hands and pulled me closer to her. She rose up on her knees and ripped my pajama top open, popping the buttons down its full length.

“What the hell?”

“Shut up and kiss me!” She crashed her mouth full onto mine and kissed me passionately. She pulled away to catch her breath and pulled away, dragging me again toward the sleeping bags.

“Robin, my heart. Remember?” Surprised and pleased by her aggressiveness.

“Don't you listen? If you die, what are the motivations behind your last acts on earth? Of revenge? Or of love?”

My mind reeled, her abrupt personality change confusing me. Against my will, my body followed hers. Against my will, my body responded to her siren song, calling to me as I gazed upon her beauty and faithful support.

“Choose what you like Copper, but I hope you'll stay and finish the job Bobby hired you to do.” She kissed my heart adding, “We've got forty minutes left for rehab before we need to call. Up for it?”

[blowcrapup]

Okaaaay Hammers get her horny :confused: Like it though KUTGW

[tenthreeleader]

You gotta love Robin. Good thing Copper does.

[Spav]

Excellent as always, Copper.

[Thepathtoamen]

Lucky guy. :-)

[Kewell08]

Still confused... as viper said, Copper turns up still managing in September in tenthree's story.

Or is there some further twist?

Keep it up! We want more

[Parkera]

LOVING THIS! The best story i have read on the net great work keep it up!

[copperhorse21]

Readers, thanks so much for the kind words and concerned speculation regarding Copper's future in Blyth.

I'm still giving nothing away, despite what rumors you may have read in print elsewhere (Rat Pack). Copper Horse also owns Olympiakos' Volou with tenthreeleader as his offsider in a third story on this forum board. A wonderfully entertaining take by Spav called, "I Done Bought Myself Olympiakos". Many of you have read this too.

There are lots of stories on this forum. Some are better than others. However, all of them are fictional and are made up of the words and ideas of each individual author.

Not everything in Wikipedia completely true. Just ask Stephen Colbert (The Colbert Report), the american comedian who changes wikipedia entries on his show occasionally just for the entertainment....

Now, please read on to see what I've created for Copper's destiny.

Chapter 81

Sunday, 24 August 2008, Croft Park, Blyth

Still feeling on top of the world following my rehab session with Robin, I charged off to Croft Park to give Bobby, as well as anyone else who crossed my path, my reply to the Board's offer to resign for medical reasons.

Robin offered to drive, but I was in such a state, I drove the short distance to Croft Park like I was in my own personal rally car. Skidding up to the parking space designated for me, I threw open the door before the car had fully stopped and stepped out.

The car, still in neutral, rolled forward to bump the curb before it stopped completely. Robin hollered after me, “Think!”

“I am!” I hollered back over my shoulder to my wife, my best friend, and my lover.

I threw open the front door and yelled, “BOBBY! I've got your answer. Where the hell are you?”

He came out of the kitchen area having just finished making a sandwich. “I'm here.” He replied, still chewing his first bite.

“You tell your fu**ing board friends that I'm not quitting! Not for my heart, not for the fans, not for anyone. Got it?”

He smiled at me and said, “Whoa, there! Let's talk this out in a civilized manner in my office.”

“Fu** civilized! We're Spartans! Any of those cowards still here? I'll tell them myself. Hell, I'll tell them to sod off! Fu**ing try to run me out of town for a bad ticker? I'll show the bastards. NO ONE will run me out of this club unless you fire my ass! You getting all this down?”

Robin caught up to me just as I was finishing up the touches issuing my own ultimatums. She put her arm around my waist and then she shocked me.

“Bobby, you tell that Board of yours that they've got to stop thinking with their wallets and start believing in matters of the heart, especially when it comes my husband's. His heart's still as strong as a wild mustang's and he's yet to be broken.” Her hand dropped lower and squeezed my hind quarter in solidarity and with affection.

Bobby's eyes caught her movement and he paused to maintain his composure. I had to give him credit. I stood before him, slicked wet with sweat from my explosive outburst and Robin stood by my side, her eyes blazing with the fury she reserved for me only. A smile spread across his face and he put his sandwich down on the nearest desk.

“Have I got your word on that, Robin?”

“Bobby, you're a maverick cowboy yourself, remember?” Robin replied.

I interrupted Robin, “That's right, you brought me in because you wanted to stick it to your Board in the first place.”

He nodded his head in recollection.

“Besides, Bobby. How can we stick it to them if I take the money and run now? Sure, Robin and I could use the money, but money can't buy us our dreams. Hard work, sweat, sacrifice, and tears fulfill dreams.”

He nodded acceptance. “Fine then. I'll tell the Board that their offer for your resignation is like beating a dead horse.” He chuckled aloud. “You're going nowhere.”

We joined him in laughter before I said, “That's the spirit I like hearing from my Boss.”

“Can I finish my sandwich now?”

“As long as I can finish up training with my team. Deal?”

“Deal.” He replied and extended his hand.

I took it and pulled him close to me so I could whisper. “You won't be sorry. Someday, we'll look back on all of this and just laugh. I promise.”

“I hope so, Copper. I truly hope so.”

[tenthreeleader]

Solid as always, Copper. Best of luck to you in the voting - you fully deserve every accolade you've received.

[O\'Hara_fan]

You can't go wrong with a good ol' rally car driving esque on a Sunday morning, then storming into a football club effin and blinding like its a football match

Love it.

[Thepathtoamen]

good stuff as always!!

[Panpardus]

Hi Copper.

I've kept up to date with this story but its taken awhile for me to work out what I want to write, and even know, I'm not that sure what I want to so I'll just say this.

Its a good story and excellently written and another worthy nomination for Story of the year, the only problem I have is the fact that I hate the main character! which tends to dampens some of the enjoyment I have of the story. If I was Bobby I would have fired you 5 times and shot myself in the head for hiring you

But in all seriousness, keep up the good work in the story writing.

[copperhorse21]

Readers, thanks for the honest feedback. As one of my readers recently told me, I can't please everyone all the time. I couldn't agree more. It's one of Copper's flaws at the moment. Read on to see how his Sunday afternoon unfolds...

Chapter 82

Sunday, 24 August 2008, Croft Park, Blyth

Dishing out my own ultimatum to the Board felt good. It was a risk, but I couldn't have cared less at the moment. I was so sick of accepting what others dished out to me, that it had physically made me sick. As Robin said a short time ago while she wrapped me up in her tight, loving embrace, “It's time for rehab. Are you up for it?”

I was definitely up for it. If it meant I still got the sack at the end of the month, then fine. I'd accept it and try again. However, I wasn't going to go down without a fight. They might want to tame my spirit, but I'd only allow it on my terms. I wasn't finished fighting for what I felt right for this club. My vision was singular in its purpose and my will to win unquenchable, but my methods unfamiliar. It didn't mean I couldn't succeed.

My body's frailty railed against the will of my spirit. Somehow, I'd need to find a way to get them to work together on one accord. That accord needed to be communicated to others for them to understand. My plan might fail, but I had to live my life as I saw fit at present because this moment in time was all I was guaranteed. My minor heart attack reinforced this belief in a heartbeat.

I strode across Croft Park, nodded to Tom who was prepping the pitch for tomorrow's match and found my team. My players stood together and listened to my staff talk about tomorrow's match.

Dale saw me first. He nodded, and then elbowed his strike partner, Bell who followed his nod. Then the elbows flew and everyone got antsy. McMillan turned around to look at the disruption. A look of surprise overcame his face, but he smiled and waved.

Baker strode over, all my bad deeds forgiven, and put his arm around me and whispered, “So, you've got a bad ticker, eh?”

“Not bad enough to keep me away from my appointed duties.”

“Doctor say it was alright?”

“Doctor's don't know everything.”

“And you do?”

“Never said that. But I do know that they're going to have to pry this whistle from my cold, dead hands before someone else takes charge on my watch.”

Baker squeezed my shoulder tight and whispered, “It's good to have you back, Gaffer.”

I addressed the small mass huddled together and offered them this bit of greeting. “Team, it's good to see you. I'm here against doctor's orders, but this is one of those things where I won't say anything if you won't either.”

Polite chuckles followed and I added, “Now, as you were. What I have to tell you can wait until McMillan's done serving up the plan for tomorrow.” They nodded and settled back down long enough for McMillan to finish his tactical plan.

Finally, it came turn for me to speak.

“Gentlemen, let's all take a lap before I speak with you.”

The players shook their limbs and talked with one another before heading around the pitch. I thought to join them, but decided against it. My encounter with Robin, my adrenaline packed drive to Croft Park, and my rousing argument with Bobby inside a few minutes ago, I figured I'd done enough rehab for the day. Instead, I thanked the staff and assured them of my fitness for the rest of the week.

When the team arrived back, I said, “Grab a seat on the pitch. This might take a while, but you won't miss a meal.”

They followed my directive and fell silent, waiting for me to speak. I paused and gathered my thoughts, outlining what would come out of my mouth and hoping it would be for the best.

“I am the Gaffer. It's my fault if the team loses. It's my responsibility to make sure you are prepared to be the best players you can be. A short time ago, I used to think that managing was just about winning. But I was reminded yesterday, that it's not about how many points we accumulate on the league table each season. It's about life we live and the lessons we learn from it. It's about the impact we make on the lives of those people who walk with us on this journey of self-discovery, of self-improvement, and of achievement.”

I paused and looked at the team. They were focused and listening. So I continued on.

“Spartans, you've heard that football is life. I don't know whether you believe that or not. I don't need to know that right now. What I need you to know is that this team is made up of individuals and each has a role to play in our successes and our failures. Each of us also has a team role to play. Knowing what we expect from you and believing in those roles determines how successful all of us can become in our lives, both on the pitch and off it.”

A few of them nodded, but still, no one said a thing. They waited patiently for me to finish speaking.

“For a moment, I want to talk about the importance of team play as it works on the pitch. Indulge me in my metaphors, if you will. They say footballers aren't the smartest lot, but I'm going to put that to the test right now.” They nodded and a couple smiled uncertainly, wondering where I was going to go with this.

“Imagine the field as its own world. We have two forces in it. Good and evil. Good is our team. Evil is our opponent. Within that struggle for supremacy, each team has four elements at their disposal to aid them in their battle. Those elements are earth, wind, fire, and water. Each element has it's unique strengths and weaknesses. Each position on the field is one of those elements.”

A couple of groans escaped from mouths and I acknowledged the feedback, but pressed on with my metaphor hoping to bring clarity to an issue for all of us to understand.

“Laugh all you want, but when I'm done, you might see the truth. Earth is rock solid, unmoving, and something on which we anchor ourselves. That's the back four defenders. Wind flows fluidly unstoppable and never stops moving from one place to another. Those are our midfielders. Fire blazes bright, gets noticed, and burns. Strikers fit the bill here. Water is the source of all life. It's something we must have to live in this world. Keepers are water.”

A couple of them chuckled, and even one hand raised, It was from Craddock, the young loanee from Middlesbrough.

“Yes, Tom, what is it?”

“I know I'm the fire, but how's it all work together on the field?”

“Let's take your position on the field as an example. From the mountains of the earth the wind swoops and swirls to give you it's precious oxygen that feed the flames of your fire. Your fire blazes bright and scorches the earth and, if you burn hot enough, you can turn water into steam by scoring a goal.”

I looked at their eyes and sparks of recognition ignited at what I was trying to illustrate.

“Each of us has a role to play. Each position is important on the field and helps to determine the results of how it all works. Bear with me while I toss out a few more examples to help make it clearer.”

The players regained silence and let me continue.

“Wind, while it can fan the flames and make them burn brighter, it can also blow them out if it swarms it too fast before it gathers strength. The same wind can also erode mountains with persistent attacks against the earth's surface. The earth slows the wind's unfettered freedom, channeling it along certain paths that it alone determines. Wind and water aren't the only things that put out fires. Dirt is of the earth and when you throw it on a fire, it smothers it. It's all ebb and flow; checks and balances. We need to find ways of making our team work more effectively in this world on the pitch. Then, and only when, we understand how our individual element relates to the larger world itself and our team becomes more successful on the pitch.”

I waved for them to get up and said, “Think tonight. Act tomorrow. Get out of here and get some rest. We've got a match to play tomorrow and I want all the elements at my disposal.”

For the moment, it felt good to be Gaffer. I'd take that moment because it was all I was guaranteed.

[blowcrapup]

That was a good speech. I'm tempted to go home and play for Blyth now

[Thepathtoamen]

me to! :-)

[copperhorse21]

Glad you enjoyed my speech.

Chapter 83

Monday, 25 August 2008, Blyth v Bedford, Croft Park

My morning routine had been altered and I was irritable. Instead of Robin's typical omelet to ease my stomach's jitters, my heart healthy diet encouraged me to eat oatmeal instead. Its mushiness offered my mouth little joy and I wished I'd skipped breakfast entirely.

Croft Park was strangely quiet. Looking at our stands, about 220 sparsely populated supporters showed up to see two pre-season relegation favorites provide dismal entertainment.

My irritation at having our second match in three days was reinforced by the papers who questioned whether our respective clubs were heading in opposite directions. Bedford on the uprise, having just been promoted last season and Blyth, winless since my arrival.

My speech in the dressing room was short. “Spartans, I got a bit metaphoric yesterday, but I meant what I said. Each of you plays an important part in today's match. You need to rely on one another and play your roles to the best of your abilities. Even if the fans don't believe in our chances, I still believe in us. We have it within each of us to play well, so let's do it.”

Dale fired them up some more, even though my captain remained on the bench and we headed outside for the match that would seal my fate with a loss.

McMillan caught my arm and said, “I want you to know that I have no interest in managing the senior side just yet.”

I nodded and replied, “Thanks. I appreciate your loyalty and have no intention of leaving, regardless of the rumors.”

He smiled and said, “Baker made that pretty clear.”

I stole a glance at Baker. He caught me looking and merely winked.

Ian Scarr's whistle sounded the kickoff and we were off to a flyer. Our players tore into Bedford early and often. I'd never seen them play with such vigor so early in the match and it pleased me, lifting my dark mood a shade brighter.

The loyal Blyth supporters braving mediocrity had a short wait before they could cheer. Evans, starting as keeper, sent a long goal kick forward. Bell jumped high into the air at midfield to win the header and nodded it square to our teen sensation, Boateng, on the right side of midfield. Boateng touched it past his defender and took two more touches before sending a beautiful low cross to Craddock who was making a near post run.

Craddock beat his defender to the ball and hit a low hard shot to the near post, forcing Hoskins to make a brilliant save and push it past in the third minute of the match.

I had already prepared to leap into the air with joy, but couldn't. Then I felt like swearing, but realized it was foolish. We'd played well already and it appeared our youth were finally working well with our new system of “elemental play.” Wisely, I clapped my hands and cheered them on in support.

We pressed Bedford further, but they wouldn't break. We'd started to move players forward in the attack to capitalize on our momentum, but they countered and Hines needed to put the ball out to give them a corner.

Bedford's, Adam Smith, sent in an out-swinging corner which Boateng was able to head away in the penalty area. However, it was a poor effort and fell nicely to Bedford's Challinor inside the six. Challinor reflexively volleyed it at Evans, who threw up his hands instinctively to deflect it back into the field of play. Hines got to it first in the scramble and cleared the lines.

Crisis now averted, I was thrilled with our escape and whooped my support for Evans' towering stand. He heard me and waved.

Baker came up behind me and said, “We're playing well. It's just a matter of time.”

I replied, “No offense, but we've got about twenty minutes left in the half and over an hour to play in the match.”

Baker winked at me again and I returned to watching the match. In the 37th minute, Ryan, another of our teenagers, playing at left back, picked up a loose ball and dribbled up the field. Bedford played off him and allowed him the time to spot Craddock's wave on the far side of the pitch. Without hesitation, he lofted a high cross that just cleared the leap of Bedford's outside defender. Craddock elevated too and headed a driving ball near post past their diving keeper.

I cheered, but again, Hoskins managed to palm it at full stretch to bounce it upwards high and slow into the air toward the back post. Everyone stopped and watched it float and land on top of the net just over the crossbar.

Our fans erupted with support and Craddock was clapped on the back for his efforts, by his strike partner, Bell.

Three consecutive corner kicks later Brawley connected with Bell on the near post six-yard box line. With a defender shoving on his back with all his might, Bell used his height and strength to hold him off long enough for Craddock to make a tight supporting run off his right shoulder. Bell dumped it short into the open space and Craddock thundered it past the frozen keeper and both stock-still defensive players on each post to put us up 1-0 with four minutes remaining.

Finally! I heaved a huge sigh of relief and felt good about our chances considering the momentum of the match.

Baker looked at me and I shook my head in submission to his uncanny ability to sense these types of moments in the match.

I ventured a chance to sit down and joined McMillan on the bench. He clapped me on the back and said, “Good teamwork. Liking it a lot.”

I called for Ryan to come off the pitch and put Webster on. I wanted another goal and I didn't want to risk Ryan staying on the pitch any longer than necessary.

Webster took the field still cold from his wait. However, the first time he touched the ball, he placed a perfectly weighted pass into the penalty area for Craddock to streak onto it.

Bedford's defender, Shotton, had no choice but to slide tackle Craddock from behind and bring him down.

Scarr immediately whistled and pointed to the spot. Craddock remained on the pitch writhing in agony from the poor challenge. Our fans screamed for a card and Bell pleaded his case on deaf ears.

After the physios removed Craddock from the field, Hines stepped up to the spot to take the kick and stared at the keeper, challenging him to block the kick. Hoskins smiled back, undaunted by the young player's mind-games. Scarr blew his whistle and Hines struck the ball into the right side of the net to score!

Our fans cheered again and we were suddenly facing a two goal lead with only extra-time remaining in the first half.

Bedford threw themselves forward in search of something in the dying moments. We managed to clear the lines and waited for Scarr to stop glancing at his wrist to blow his whistle closing out the half.

Bedford's Glasspool sent a Hail-Mary long ball forward hoping for a foul. He didn't get it. Instead, Hines, still flying from his first-ever goal for the club, elevated above their attacker to nod it square to Beastall in the center of the pitch.

Richardson intercepted it and two touches later slotted the ball past Evans to pull one closer. I swore under my breath and stared daggers at Hines for losing his mind so close after scoring his own.

We kicked off and the whistle sounded within five seconds.

Five seconds from a two goal lead stuck in my craw as we headed into the dressing room for half-time. My mood darkened once more and I wondered what would escape my mouth over the next fifteen minutes.

I hoped I wouldn't regret it.

[tenthreeleader]

Bring it home, man!

[Thepathtoamen]

get on we're nearly there, (I say we as I know feel part of the team although I am obviously not) :-)

[salkster2102]

got my fingers crossed for you copper

[O\'Hara_fan]

I am shocked to say this, but I saw someone wearing a Spartans shirt today, therefore missing the crucial Blyth v Bedford BSN fixture. Just horrifying.

And he was in Gateshead territory.

Well, you've blew leads so many times before Copper, I really hope you win your first here. Otherwise what story are you planning on doing next?

[copperhorse21]

Readers, much obliged by your support. Leg it out! It's a bit lengthy.

Chapter 84

Monday, 25 August 2008, Blyth v Bedford, Croft Park

I was steamed coming into the dressing room. Allowing such a late goal was unacceptable, especially considering Hines had allowed his joy to interfere with his duties on the pitch.

However, I knew I had to watch what I said to him because he's young and it's my duty to teach him what to do on the pitch. Southgate didn't send his million dollar prospects to me to return home scarred and emotionally battered.

My inner emotions swirled in conflict. I wanted to scream at him and yell at everyone while I threw **** and overturned benches, but I couldn't. I needed to be the professional. I needed to lead by example and be the eye in the storm.

What was it Baker always said? That's right, “Take control of what you can and let go of the rest.”

Hines had already found a spot on the far side of the dressing room from me. He might be beyond arm's length, but still, I could command his attention with the dagger bladed non-verbals from across the room. I refrained.

I took a deep breath and vowed silently to make a date with the heavy bag following the match, assuming I'd have the chance before getting run out of town by the angry mob, Fenton leading the charge.

“Spartans, we had the match as good as sown up and we let it slip away. To make matters worse, the hope Hines gave us with his first goal ever was stolen by a thief. The thief is on our team. He's infiltrated our squad and wreaked havoc with our result.”

All eyes bore down on Hines before I realized the squad and I were on two different wavelengths. Quickly, I rushed to straighten out my mess.

“No, no, no! I don't mean Hines. He's not the thief. The thief is Complacency. Complacency is a contagion that spoils the rewards of good deeds and glory. Craddock got hacked down. Penalty awarded. Goal scored. No problem. The problem came in that we relaxed our guard immediately following a score. That's the easiest time to counter for our opponent because we are still back in the moment. The glorious one. The one that it gone, but can never be taken away. Instead, we've got new moments to face. And we'll face them as long as the clock keeps ticking!”

They stopped looking at Hines and had turned back to me, listening with care to the words that spilled carelessly from my mouth. I listened to them too, surprised by what I heard.

The words continued flowing, unencumbered in the rapt silence.

“Spartans, we are one bad call away from a draw. One! We already know what that feels like for each of the past three matches. We need to claim our futures for ourselves. We need to draw the line in the pitch and forbid them from crossing it! We need to lay claim to this entire pitch and show Bedford that this is our world and we are the elements. Earth! Wind! Fire! Water! Each of us has a role to play. Each of us can stop them, but it will require everyone to draw their own lines and own their part of the field.”

I paused, looked at Baker and the rest of the staff. McMillan nodded to go on.

“Spartans, we've given them a gift too rich for their blood. We must be watchful as soon as the second half begins. They will be fired up and going for our throats, hoping they can rip it out with a goal before we even get started. Be watchful! Guard your part of the field and let's take back the match!”

We headed out to the pitch and I caught Hines' arm as he passed. “Hines, you messed up! You're young. Know the nice thing about youth?”

“No, coach. What?”

“Youth live in the moment. They forgive and they forget easily. I forgive you your mistake. I believe in you.” I clapped him on the back and we took to the real elements again in front of our small, but raucous crowd.

Just before our players took the field, I called Evans over and said, “Remember when you announced how you were more than ready to play for Blyth?”

He smiled. “Yep.”

“Here's your chance to back it up. This half is crucial!”

“F**k yeah, Boss! I own this sh*t!”

I shook my head in disbelief while he raced to his goal box and bounced around like a cage fighter ready for The Octagon.

Baker approached.

“Nice job, Copper. I didn't know you had it in you.”

“I didn't either.”

“We'll find out if it worked in about ten minutes.”

Scarr sounded the second half whistle and Bedford took off. We spent the first four minutes in our own half trying to keep them away from shooting. It didn't work.

Somehow, they found a way inside the penalty area and from in the midst of the crowd a Bedford players slammed it suddenly towards the post. Evans' diving figure flashed across the goal mouth to parry it away in the sea of white. Almost instantly, the ball fell to Richardson's feet for a second shot. Evans recovered just enough to scramble it away a second time and out of bounds.

Richardson hung his head in his hands, disbelieving he missed the sitter from inside the six. Hines had scooped Evans up off the pitch in joyful relief while Evans spewed forth taunts worthy of a professional wrestler. “That's what I'm talking about, bitch!”

Richardson snapped out of it and shouted back, “What'd you say you pr*ck?”

“You heard me! Did I stutter?”

Bell raced back and pushed Evans back before Scarr could pull a card out of his pocket.

Eventually, play resumed, but Bedford's assault had been thwarted. Slowly we regained dominance in all areas of the pitch, but we couldn't put the match away.

Still twenty minutes from time, my mouth dried up. I kept reaching for water, but it couldn't stop the cotton mouth from claiming it's kill.

Baker must have noticed because he approached me and stood silently off my shoulder when he felt it time to sub.

I ignored him, like usual. What I needed wasn't another sub, it was a midfielder who could hold the ball and thread the passes where they needed to go. We didn't have one, unless we left our left and right backs exposed.

Bedford challenged with another long ball, but Hines rose up to meet it and won the header, sending it back up the pitch once more. Bedford sent it right back, but this time, Hines intercepted the pass and lofted it over the top. Bell, timed his attacking run just right, beat their offside trap and was off to the races.

I started screaming, “Go Bell! Go!”

Hendry had no choice but to drag him down from behind. Scarr had no choice but to card him for his professional foul. Our fans had no choice but to whistle Hendry off the field and into the dressing room. I had no choice but to call Boateng's number for the free kick.

Up a man, Boateng tried to capitalize on the situational turmoil with a look-alike free kick reminiscent of Cristiano Ronaldo. He stood with his feet apart, arms locked straight by his sides, and eyes watching for the faintest opening while listening for the whistle. When it came, he approached it and blasted it hard at the near post corner with a thirty yard bending shot.

Our crowd gasped politely, but it had no real chance and it sailed wide of the net.

Three minutes later, Craddock busted through the line and was taken down in the box again. Challinor screamed, “Diver!” earning himself the yellow and I wanted a piece of Scarr's flesh for not sending the keeper off.

Baker caught my arm, “COPPER!”

I spun my head to see him jabbing his finger at me, “DON'T!”

Chastised, my ears flushed and I stamped the ground instead, challenging him.

Baker responded to it. Getting within a foot, he stared at me and said quietly, “We got the PK and we're a man up. THINK! Don't make it worse by pis*ing off Scarr off.”

I spun back around in time to watch Hines aim for the opposite side of the goal from his first kick. He missed it badly left.

Hines hung his head in his hands in shame. Bell shoved him away like he had to Evans earlier, but this time, it was because he was encouraging Hines. “Shrug it! Get in the game!”

Challinor pointed at Craddock and yelled, “That's for cheating!”

“****! Sh*t! Sh*t!” I thought, but by body clapped supportively for Hines instead. “We need you Hines!” I shouted. “You can do it!”

In the 74th minute, Brawley took the corner. The Scotsman floated it into the penalty area. Hines rose above the crowd and drove the ball at Challinor in front of the net. Challinor punched it away, but it fell to Grounds outside the eighteen. Grounds rocketed a first time blast at the net which Challinor barely managed to tip over the net for another corner.

Our supporter's gasped support while I screamed encouragement through numb, dry lips. “Go Spartans! You can do this!”

Challinor was screaming too. He was fired up and so was Bedford. His teammates surrounded him and cheered him on, inspired by his heroics between the sticks.

Inside, I wondered if we had what it would take to get it past him. Not because he'd been such a great keeper, but because we couldn't seem to close out matches yet. We weren't used to leading from the front and losing had been so deeply ingrained in our mindset for so long.

Would we be like the Titanic; too much momentum and not enough rudder to avoid catastrophe?

Bedford, inspired by Challinor, pressed forward for the equalizer. On the pitch, we looked tired, almost resigned to destiny and, possibly, defeat.

I hollered myself hoarse on the sidelines trying to get them to hold on. I knew I shouldn't, but I couldn't stop myself.

Three minutes remained and Bedford had pushed even further up the pitch. We shifted to the far side of the pitch to crowd the area. Their right defender sent a long ball across the pitch to reverse the field to find some space.

Webster got to it first, beating his marker to the ball by a step just in front of my technical area. Without looking, Webster sent it forward toward the middle of the field midway between Craddock and their keeper.

I held my breath, watching Craddock sprint and touch a long ball forward toward goal. With his last bit of energy he raced after it. Challinor rushed from his box to meet him on a collision course twenty five yards out.

I wanted to turn away, but couldn't, curiosity latching hold of my eyes and forcing them to watch the action unwavering in panicked agony.

Craddock at near full-stretch, kissed the ball with the outside of his foot, planted on it and leaped over Challinor sliding beneath him, hands reaching up to trip him.

Somehow, he missed and Craddock regained his balance like a cat in the air to catch up to the loose ball and pass it into the open goal for the score.

“GOOOOAAAALLLL!!!!” Screamed Blyth announcer.

Our bench cleared in joyful praise.

Craddock slid across the field on his knees thumping his chest in proper celebration before he was dogpiled by the field players on the edge of the field by the corner flag.

The supporters screamed support chanting his name, “CRAD-DOCK! CRAD-DOCK!”

As I fist pumped the air with both fists, Baker collided with me hollering, “You did it! You bloody well did it!”

Emotions overflowing every obstacle, I wept openly on the sidelines, wrung out with relief and joyful satisfaction.

We'd done it! We'd finally done it!

[tenthreeleader]

I can rarely recall being more pleased to read a match outcome. Congratulations!

[robterrace]

That, is bloody awesome.