Rob Ridgway's "Rat Pack"

[chesterfan2]

This is one of those stories that is even better if you don't read it for a while and then catch up all in one go. I think many of you officanados would find that kind of self-discipline really quite hard but I'd heartily recommend it.

10-3.. ..No idea where this story is going, and that's probably why I think it's so good.

[tenthreeleader]

CF, thank you very much ... one of the things I have tried very hard to do over the last few weeks is to create an element of uncertainty about this major arc because it may just influence the direction of the larger arc that is coming toward the end of the season. Usually having no idea where a story is going is a bad thing

___

“Yes, he rescued me, Rob. He saved my life, no doubt about it.”

“I’m just glad you are all right, but I’d like you to come home,” I said. “Can you possibly want to stay in an environment like that?”

“I’d rather not, but there’s still work to do,” Patty said.

“Not when that work places you and our baby at risk and keeps you around Hardcastle,” I said.

“Rob, I have a contract.”

“There has got to be a provision in that contract that lets you out if someone tries to shoot you,” I snapped. “I’m going to contact Adrian.”

“No, please don’t,” she said. “Rob, I can do it.”

“Don’t worry yourself,” I responded. “I need to talk with Adrian anyway.”

“Really, Rob, I’ll handle it. He’s my attorney.”

“And I’ve retained him too, over my contract,” I said. “What difference does it make which of us talks to him?”

“I’d really rather it be me,” she said. “I’ve known him longer and frankly, you weren’t there tonight to tell him what happened.”

That fact was already grinding at me. Too damn far away. Again.

“I wish I could have been,” I replied.

“You might have been killed,” she said. “Rob, it was better this way and I’ve told you that.”

“And I repeat, it was never a good idea for you to do this alone. You won’t move me on that and I want you home. If you won’t talk with Adrian about getting out of this deal, then I will and I don’t care about any contract. I’d walk away from mine if I was in danger and I don’t think anyone has a reason to stick around that shooting site – I mean, that photo site, right now.”

“I’ll let you know how it goes,” she said, before hanging up.

Now I was furious. There was just no reason for this sorry situation to have reached this point and from where I sat, it should have ended with our conversation.

Someone really wants to put my wife in a pine box. That’s enough to make me chew nails anyway. To have things reach this point is quite unacceptable.

I have to do something.

# # #

[tenthreeleader]

Friday, October 16

To the surprise of absolutely no one, yesterday’s news has made headlines across Europe.

Even Sir John, who has been pretty adamant regarding everything that has gone on of late, stopped by my office – not the other way around – to offer his sympathies.

“We’ll get this sorted,” he told me. “I know we’ll be ready for tomorrow’s match but if your thoughts are with Patty we certainly understand.”

“If?” I said, trying not to sound incredulous.

“I should expect nothing less, of course,” he said. “We are close to getting the mess around this club cleaned up and then it will be back to business.”

His change of tack was interesting, but that was also news I could use.

“And do I get to see Sidney doing a frog march when it’s all said and done?” I asked, with a smile as I matched his change of direction.

“Rob.”

“Sorry, Sir John,” I said. “I know he’s a friend.”

“Debatable,” the owner snorted. “But still, I need you to show a little more respect for the board than that.”

“When he shows some to me,” I said dryly. “For now, though, I have to figure out how I’m going to keep my wife safe without putting her in a cage.”

“I do wish you the best of good fortune, Rob,” he said, “but you know the other reason I am here.”

“Of course I do, tomorrow is a match day,” I said. “I am telling you, Sir John, we will be ready.”

“I have no doubt of that, you have a very capable staff here that is unaffected by the issues surrounding you,” he replied. “However, I do need to ask you if you feel you are capable of handling the responsibilities of the job at the present time.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I was pretty sure the question he was asking wasn’t a good one.

“Are you asking me to resign?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “However, if you would like to take a leave of absence to repair your personal and private life, the board are prepared to grant this to you.”

I did not hesitate at all in answering.

“No, thank you,” I replied. “I am fully capable of handling my job, and I think it is also fair to say that it helps me to have something to which I can give my full energies while all this is going on.”

“Come again?” the owner asked.

“I need a place to escape,” I said, feeling a sense of rising fear as I contemplated what this all meant. “As long as results are going our way that’s fine, and I’d like to stay. I know there is a lot of speculation in the press, especially when it has been fed by a member of the board, but I do like being able to simply immerse myself in the job you are paying me to do.”

Sir John mulled it over.

“Rob, I see your point,” he finally said. “Surely being a football wonk never hurt Arsene Wenger.”

“Exactly,” I agreed.

“Then carry on,” he said. “You are third entering the match tomorrow and we have discussed league expectations in great detail with you. We believe you understand them.”

“I do,” I said, agreeing again. It seemed to be the safest course of action.

“Then good luck tomorrow, Rob, and get us a result,” Sir John said, as he left the office.

He closed the door behind him and I stood in an eerie calm.

The television on the far wall of my office was on, and a match was playing, but the sound was turned down.

A soft humming noise emanated from the small refrigerator placed on the opposite wall from my desk.

Otherwise, the room was silent.

# # #

[tenthreeleader]

“I told you, you should have been more careful, and what’s more, your husband should never have sacked me.”

Patty sat in the passenger seat of Hardcastle’s rented car. She would have no one else take her back to the hotel.

“I know, Steven,” she said quietly. Otherwise, she kept her own counsel and she did not look at her rescuer as they drove.

“Look, Patty, I just want you to know…” Hardcastle began to speak, but Patty wouldn’t look at him.

Instead, she looked at the leather interior of Hardcastle’s Range Rover and tried to piece together what had happened to her on another night where similar emotions had been expressed.

She remembered the terror she had felt that night in Italy, when those two goons had run her car into a bridge abutment.

One by one the feelings came flooding back. First there was the unease at two cars whose drivers seemed to be blocking her into a certain section of freeway.

Then came her momentary flash of anger as one of them slowed down.

Then, her realization that trouble was afoot when the outside car swerved violently as the bridge neared.

Her hands flew involuntarily to her mouth as she remembered the moment of impact. That was the last thing she remembered for a time, until she woke up in the hospital in Venice.

Now, it was happening again. She simply could not feel safe.

There was a common denominator, she thought to herself.

Both these bad things had happened to her through her association with her husband, she thought.

Hardcastle looked at Patty as his car pulled up outside the hotel.

“Are you all right? I’ll stay,” he offered. “Outside.”

“I’m fine, Steven,” she said. “Surely I’ll be safe in the room. But I need to get out of this place. I talked with Rob today, and he was right. I need to be home.”

He looked at her, wondering how hard he should push.

“Well, if it means anything to you, I’m glad I could help you tonight,” he said. “Something told me that it wasn’t the right time to go home, if you catch my meaning.”

“I do catch your meaning,” Patty said. “But, Steven, I still can’t give you what you want. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Perhaps you’d better tell me what it is I want,” he said. That seemed an odd thing to say.

“You want me,” Patty said. “And we’ve been over that.”

He sighed heavily.

“Yes, Patty, I have to admit it. I do want you, very much. What man wouldn’t? But you’ve told me what you’ve told me and I have to accept that.”

The look on Hardcastle’s face told Patty that he accepted no such thing.

# # #

[Polar Bear]

Having not visited the Stories forum for ages, I find I have pages and pages of new Rob to enjoy! Sterling work 10-3

[tenthreeleader]

PB, welcome back! Glad you are continuing to enjoy this - Rob has been busy since you last read, I am sure!

___

Saturday, October 17

Reading (6-4-0, 3rd place) v Liverpool (7-2-1, 2nd place) – EPL Match Day #11

I woke up angry this morning.

It has been some time since I felt that way, but there was intensity in my demeanor that I found frankly refreshing as I prepared to head to the ground.

The big week had begun.

It all started with Patty’s e-mail and phone call this morning detailing the conversation she had had with Hardcastle last night. Surely things won’t get any better for him when he returns to England – if he returns any time soon – as he is now a person of interest in the McGuire beating.

I hardly care about that at the moment. What matters to me is the situation surrounding my wife.

Martin called this morning. I hung up on him.

He barely had time to call me an a******e before the phone was turned off and resting in pieces across the room where I had thrown it.

During Patty’s call, she told me she would be flying home during the match. I arranged to meet her at the airport afterwards in a very quiet setting. This was perhaps the biggest shot in the arm I could receive from a morale standpoint.

At least, I thought so. We would be under the same roof again, and Hardcastle would be out of sight. For me, after this week, that would be a major victory.

I’m still not sure I can forgive her, but at least we will be away from him so we have time to think – and to have it out, if it comes to that.

All I have ever asked for is to have my house in order, and after today’s match that is exactly what I will have.

From a personal point of view, I can even lay claim to being right in a perverse sort of way, though that has little bearing on the situation now.

I did tell her that leaving was not a good idea. Neither of us knew how bad an idea it would be, of course, and now police from hither and yon are investigating a rare shooting incident on the streets of Bordeaux.

It was just the latest thing. I didn’t relish the thought of facing the tabloid press after such a week, but that is part and parcel of my life nowadays.

All I had to do was make it through this match.

# # #

[tenthreeleader]

Patty woke up alone and could hardly wait to start her day.

What sleep had come had been fitful. Surely that was understandable.

She had thought through Hardcastle’s offer in the car, and had rejected it out of hand. Yet, she couldn’t get over one indisputable fact.

He had saved her.

Her covers were pulled up to her neck. She had left the window open to listen to the ocean through the fourth floor window, and had almost gotten out of bed after having a James Bond-like dream in which someone had tried to scale the wall.

That was foolishness, she had thought. Her existing security was on duty and presumably was redoubling its efforts.

Knowing that another change in that department was now likely, she felt a little better. Yet, as she lay awake, she couldn’t get over her issues with Hardcastle’s firing in the first place.

If only he hadn’t made a play.

It was silly and stupid of him, she thought. He was clearly very good at his job, but the idea of spending a life with the man seemed quite odd to Patty. He clearly wanted her.

She didn’t even find him especially attractive. What she liked about him was that he seemed to understand her intuitively.

There was a lot to be said for that.

“Rob does too,” she said aloud, as her first words of the new morning.

She leaned back into her pillows and looked across to the other side of the hotel room’s king-sized bed. The covers there were still relatively undisturbed.

However, her tossing and turning had turned the left side of the bed into quite a different sight.

She was clearly upset and you didn’t even have to look at her face to see it.

She got out of bed, and flipped on a coffee pot in the room to make her morning cup. She then headed off to the shower while the coffee brewed, with tears in her eyes.

# # #

[tenthreeleader]

I drew 4-4-2 on the board in the changing room. It was Liverpool again, and the last time we had tried 4-4-2 we had lost to them.

This time, though, I planned for a different result.

One by one the players arrived and the changing room slowly came to life.

With Kitson unavailable until the weekend, Dagoberto and Baptista would give us our Samba Kings pairing from the start of the match. Frankly, I was looking forward to seeing it in action, even considering how well Kitson has played for us this season.

Otherwise, it was our regular eleven – we had come through the international break with everyone still reasonably healthy and otherwise uninjured – but our shape was different.

I respect Liverpool’s central midfield quite a bit and since every statistic but the score showed that our formation had worked the last time we had tried it, the tried and true 4-4-2 seemed worth another go from my point of view.

Of course, 4-4-2 is the traditionalist’s formation anyway, so I didn’t think I would be displeasing anyone of importance by playing a scheme that would give us a little more stability. Not that anyone else’s opinion mattered.

What mattered more to me was that it was very warm for October – the match temperature was hovering right around 25 degrees Centigrade – due to the passage of a weather front that was bringing both wind and rain that had started to fall as I entered the stadium.

Unfortunately, we couldn’t be stylish. We would have to find another way.

There was a real air of anticipation as the teams took the field for the match. Our early matches notwithstanding, this was the first match we had far enough into the season to have any sort of buildup attached to it.

The teams finished their walkout just as the first drops of rain began to fall. A crowd of close to 31,000 greeted their arrival, and it was as intense as any Reading crowd I had yet seen.

Referee Mark Halsey placed the ball on the center spot for Liverpool to kick it off, and as he did, it started to rain harder.

That didn’t bode well for our style as the match resumed, but at that moment the weather was secondary for a wholly different, and rather selfish, reason.

I had something else to concentrate on again, and that was a tremendous feeling.

Unfortunately, surrendering a shot on target within the first sixty seconds brought me back to reality with an almost sickening thud.

It was their captain, Gerrard, who did it, taking a very nice little lead ball from Xabi Alonso and testing Lobont from twenty yards. Thankfully, he didn’t connect solidly, and my captain saved from theirs with some ease.

It didn’t help my disposition that they had strolled right through the middle of my supposedly bolstered midfield to generate an immediate good chance, though.

I leaned back under the covering canopy of the dugout and looked at Dillon.

“Remind me why we prepare, again?” I asked.

[tenthreeleader]

He just shook his head.

The next few minutes were spent watching two football teams watching it rain. There just wasn’t much going on, as we got our feet underneath us and Liverpool seemed to re-load for another stint in front of our goal.

However, the 4-4-2 was taking hold, with the central combination of Magallón and Dicã working well and smoothly together.

Nicolae certainly likes to get forward, as his goal-scoring record this season will attest, but he likes being in the center of things every bit as much. He spent more time coming deep for the ball and helping link play than he usually does. In short, he was starting to understand the duality of his role better, and it came at the right time.

So, it was not terribly surprising to see him starting our first attack of the match nine minutes in, spinning away from Alonso to send Kalou away down the right.

The Ivorian, instead of heading to the byline, cut to the inside to try his luck. Unfortunately, he blazed over from just inside the Liverpool box.

It was a good little buildup, quick in the execution but lacking in the finish. At least we had asserted ourselves, and as the first half wore on, the midfield struggle started to turn in our favor – as it had the last time we had faced them.

That was a good thing. Because the match then turned stultifying, and I use that word in understatement.

We just didn’t do anything with the ball when we had it. When we let them have it, they didn’t do any better.

It got to the point where it was so bad Kalou’s cross on the half-hour amounted to nearly the only significant threat posed by either team.

It was definitely a day for the defenders in the early going. The rain now became driving, and the play of both teams began to degrade even further, if such a thing was possible.

Alonso would come forward and try to start something, only to see a pass break on the rocks of Huth and Sonko in the center of our defense.

We would move it forward in reply, and Dicã would find himself stymied by Ezequiel Garay or Jamie Carragher.

So far we hadn’t had a shot on target, and the match had just turned past 35 minutes. Liverpool had only had one, so it wasn’t as though they were doing a whole lot better.

That was, until Dirk Kuyt was freed by Torres, having skipped along the surface of Lake Madejski against Huth. He sploshed his way into the ball and again drove a shot onto Lobont that my keeper saved with surprisingly sure hands given the conditions.

That was pretty much a summary of the first 36 minutes of the match. We still had done nothing meaningful despite the lion’s share of the possession, and as the half rolled over into its final five minutes, our propensity to concede late now drilled its way into my head.

My goal was to get to half scoreless, but Baptista – at last – had other ideas.

He and Dagoberto had been almost completely silent in the half to that point, but now The Beast worked with his strike partner after we won a set piece about 35 yards from goal.

Dagoberto took the set piece himself – to the consternation of Maloney, who usually does the deed for us from that range – and after his rather poor effort came back off the wall and directly back to him, the pace striker found the targetman trying to skirt the left flank of the Liverpool defense.

He took a low, hard shot – and that hit the backtracking Alonso and went behind for a corner.

Well, it was something. It wasn’t on target, but it was something.

Halsey blew for halftime and we all went to dry off. Except for me. For a change, I hadn’t ventured out of the dugout, which was rare enough for me.

All I knew was that a similar performance in the second half would result in a skin-soaked manager and a bunch of blistered players.

# # #

[tenthreeleader]

It had been an abysmal first half from just about every point of view and by just about every measure.

Tactically, though, we were doing pretty well in terms of possession. We just weren’t moving, with or without the ball.

We were content to try to beat Liverpool through a direct game, just short of old-fashioned Wimbledon long ball. It wasn’t the way we usually play and it certainly wasn’t the way I like to see us play, but our first half performance did have one distinct advantage.

While in the buildup, we held the ball for a very long time. Our possession advantage in the first half was a rather staggering 59-41 – not bad for a team that is derided by some purists as no better than a counter-attacking rope-a-dope side.

In short, we had taken over the game but had done nothing with it once we had it. That certainly rankled.

So my instructions at half were to come out of our shell a bit.

“I don’t care that it’s raining, everyone gets equally wet,” I demanded. “You’re the home team so let’s start playing like it. I love how you handled the ball and kept it away from them in the first half but now let’s see you do something with it. This one is there for the taking and it’s a chance for you to make a statement. Get that statement made, gentlemen.”

With that, I went into the hallway to pace for a few minutes while the players dried off and otherwise prepared for the second half.

At least it wasn’t cold – that would have been misery itself for them – but it was an uncomfortable day to play due to the unusual heat.

Both teams looked tired on top of it all. With so many players on both teams coming back from international duty and more than a few of them still looking a bit jet-lagged, it was a bit unrealistic to expect high powered performances from everyone.

It was quite realistic, though, to expect professional performances, and that was what I was trying to encourage.

The second half kicked off and I wondered if my ‘kinder, gentler’ approach would cut any ice with this group.

Five minutes into the second half, the first good chance came – and again, it went to Liverpool. Kuyt blazed over from distance and sort of shrugged his shoulders as he returned to run back up the pitch.

That sort of display didn’t sit well with Benitez, and before long Peter Crouch was running up and down the touchline to get himself warmed up. The fact that he only seemed to need four strides to run from the technical area to the corner flag was a bit disconcerting, but it wasn’t like I could do anything about it.

The best way to do something about it was to cajole some sort of offensive action from my team. An effort by Dicã wound up bounding off Garay a few minutes later, launching the visitors into a counterattack of their own.

Kuyt wound up with the ball from Emiliano Insua, and the first thing he did was look for Torres. That seemed to be one of the few rational and logical actions by either side in the 55 minutes of the match to that point, and sure enough the Spaniard got the ball in good time.

The defense shifted to Torres, so he did an equally intelligent thing and squared the ball back for Kuyt.

Now he moved in, with the central defenders split and flailing behind him, looking for a potentially decisive goal.

The only member of my team that didn’t buy the full-on sellout to Torres was Lobont. Thank God for that. At least Kuyt had opposition as he closed in – and the captain made a wonderful save to turn a frankly disappointing effort around his right hand post.

The crowd had something to cheer about, even if it wasn’t related to attack, and that at least brought a smile to my face. After nearly an hour without so much as a single shot on target, I was ready for some good news.

It was time to brave the elements, as they say. With a steady downpour still dominating the tactical aspects of play, I stepped out toward the touchline in a raincoat that was going to get a workout covering a touchline suit that was probably going to get wrecked unless we started playing better in a big hurry.

Despite the ire raised in the mind of the manager, I had to consider that the sheet was still clean on our end as well. Liverpool was making no headway at all against the center of our midfield, and the thing that pleased me the most was that Magallón was playing Gerrard to an absolute standstill.

Jonny was outstanding. I had instructed him to close down Gerrard as often as he could due to his superior man-marking skills. He is the best option I have when I need an opposing central midfielder shut down and since he also matches Gerrard nicely for pace, that particular part of the tactic was working to perfection.

Meanwhile, Dicã against Alonso was a bit more dicey. Neither player is noted for his defensive skills so the situation between them was more, shall we say, fluid.

Finally, though, we got a break from the center of our midfield as the match turned over seventy minutes. With Lita ready to step on in the hopes of some late-match magic, Dicã finally shook free and found space between in center of the Liverpool defense.

Maloney’s pullback found the Romanian twelve yards out from goal and lonesome. His first-time effort was on target – and also, unfortunately, close enough to Pepe Reina to force the keeper into his first save of the match.

It had taken seventy full minutes, but now we were warmed up and with twenty minutes remaining, we looked much the more likely of the sides to find a winner.

# # #

[tenthreeleader]

Baptista had had a disappointing performance, and so made way for Lita in 72 minutes. My preference was for as much pace up top as I could find, as the Madejski’s part-synthetic turf made a passing game still possible.

The rain was also starting to let up, without the need to pair up by twos and find shelter measured in cubits.

A quick trip to the touchline on the part of our kit managers had allowed me to trade my overcoat and suit top for a waterproof top, and for the first time I wore something with my initials on it during a match.

I have never been one to subscribe to the initials craze – I know my own name and I expect my players to know it as well – but I was getting soaked.

The change was made with the ball punted authoritatively into touch by Carragher for a throw-in to us. I allowed myself to drift a bit as a ball boy tossed a dry ball to Ferreira for him to resume play.

Smiling to myself as I put on the jacket, I remembered back to a conversation I had once had with the legendary Wolves manager Jim Thomson late in my playing days with regard to a similar issue.

I was considering management as a next career, and I asked the great man what his players called him.

“They call me boss or gaffer,” he had said. “If we ever graduate to ‘Mr. Thomson’’, the player knows he’s in trouble.”

Looking down at the inverted ‘RR’ that now emblazoned my right breast pocket, I thought of Jim for a fleeting second.

“I wonder if you could find a winner here, Jim?” I mused to myself, as play resumed.

The throw found its way into the box and a miskick by the same Carragher resulted in a viciously fast clearance aimed at the posterior of Dicã, who had managed to turn just far enough around to avoid the potential for real damage to his family life.

The rebound of the clearance was fortiutious, and wound up straight in the path of Lita. The supersub smiled, and moved in for a shot at Reina that would surely win the game.

Surely.

Except it didn’t.

Reina palmed his effort around the post and the crowd sighed with dismay.

Jim Thomson might have been able to find a winner today, but I certainly couldn’t.

Reading 0

Liverpool 0

A – 30,777, Madejski Stadium, Reading

Man of the Match – Pepe Reina, Liverpool (8)

# # #

[gavrenwick]

A rather excellent post, tenthree.

[copperhorse21]

like the allusion to "Jim T" a lot. A humble tribute to one of the solidly contributing forum members whose recent departure will not be forgotten anytime soon. Kudos!

[tenthreeleader]

Thanks, fellows. I actually had this post written some time ago after Jim had written a manager's introduction speech and posted it. I learned quite a bit from Jim, and it was a nice coincidence that this post would hit on the weekend of his services. We shared correspondence during his illness and the way he faced his situation was quite brave indeed. I will miss him.

___

“This glass is still half full.”

The pronouncement to the press seemed like damage control as much as anything else, but being held at home in a match of such importance was certainly not optimal.

There was muttering in the crowd as the whistle went for full time, but in fairness it had been a difficult day to play and both teams had difficulty generating chances. We dominated possession, though, and our inability to find a way through them was quite frustrating indeed.

“I think it was a case of two sides who respect each other going out and trying to find a way through,” I said. “I know we have a great deal of respect for Rafa and his team, two years removed from a championship and wanting to get it back. They are a very good side and we have to understand that. Still, I would have loved to find a way through and I have to be disappointed that we didn’t, especially on our own ground.”

I was talking in a more magnanimous tone than I probably felt. I was doing the duty even though we hadn’t dropped all three points.

For the second straight time, we had played well enough to defeat Liverpool on our own ground and for the second straight time we had failed to do so.

That was galling.

However, I had other fish to try. I had to meet Patty at the airport and I wasn’t going to be put off one second longer than I needed to be.

# # #

The sense of tiredness I felt as I arrived at the international reception gate was compounded by several factors.

First, I was bordering on exhaustion. The events of the last few days have me unsure of what I’m supposed to believe, and that is never helpful.

Second, the match had not only proven what they say about ‘snore draws’, it had also taken a great deal of mental energy from me. Even with the weather being as poor as it was, we had to get our tactics right to get a result. We had done that much, at least.

As I drove, I confessed to feeling a little glazed over at certain points during the match. A steady rainfall and play that was as plodding as the turf at times didn’t really help.

So walking to the international arrival lounge at Heathrow was a bit more invigorating than the majority of the day.

I thought back to a couple of weeks ago when a relaxed and happy couple had sat near the spot on which I now stood, waiting for a trip to Monaco to reinvigorate our marriage.

How times can change.

Waiting for Patty to arrive, I wondered how the conversation we were about to have would go. When I haven’t been working, she has been all I’ve thought about since arriving back in England.

It all just seemed too monstrous to be true.

In the meantime, someone making another try for Patty while I was away seemed not only dangerous but highly convenient to me.

I did not put it past Hardcastle to set up a fake attempt, on top of it all.

I don’t trust that b*****d any farther than I can throw him.

Regarding their relationship, she had said what she had said. The question was whether I could believe she meant what she said.

Or, more accurately, whether I could admit to being wrong.

[tenthreeleader]

The appointed time came, and went. The plane was late, which didn’t help my mood.

As anyone who has seen me manage before knows, when I get frustrated I will pace. So, I was starting to wear a track up and down the aisle behind the first row of chairs in the lounge.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Every football fan in the room soon knew who I was, but they couldn’t have guessed why I was there.

At last, half an hour late, the plane finally arrived, taxiing to the jetway and beginning to unload its passengers.

She was one of the first ones off, thankfully.

Patty appeared at the end of the jetway and our eyes met. As they did, I realized how wrong my thought had been about no one guessing why I was there.

A different kind of flash mob soon appeared – photographers and press who knew who was on the plane and where it had come from.

Journalistic hacks of every size, shape and description were waiting for us on the other side of the doorway to the lounge.

I looked at Patty, and she at me. We just sighed, at the same time.

Unsmiling, she walked toward me, carrying a large purse over her right shoulder and a carry bag in her left hand.

I walked toward her, and we met at the DMZ of the airline check-in counter.

She dropped her bags and opened her arms. It was as close to a public statement as she could make, and photographers behind the glassed-in lounge were already trying to snap pictures.

I looked at her.

“Welcome home, Patty,” I said.

I opened my arms, and she walked in.

She nestled her head against my chest and we both began to cry.

# # #

[chesterfan2]

Oooh, now that's going to make a picture....

[Panpardus]

Toughen up princess!

[tenthreeleader]

Correct on both counts, gentlemen ... but Pan, cut Rob a little slack, the man's been through the wringer!

Unfortunately a bit of a shorter post today ... will make that difference up tomorrow.

___

“Patty, is it true you’ve filed for divorce?”

“Patty, is is true that your child belongs to someone else?”

The questions fired at us as we ran the gauntlet from the lounge to the baggage claim were as shocking as they were crude.

Eyes glued ahead of us, we held hands as we strode through the concourse.

Neither of us said a word. I would have gotten myself in trouble and she was too mortified to make as much as a squeak.

Finally, we reached a secure area where we could wait for her bags. I turned to her.

“That is why going rogue was a bad idea,” I said, pointing back to the pack of individuals with pens, paper and recording devices handy. “But it’s done now.”

“Yes, it is,” she finally said. “It has been an awful, awful time.”

Resisting the urge to say ‘I told you so’ again, I remarked instead on how much of that awful time had been my responsibility.

The answer was rather more than I cared to admit.

“How’s Alba?” Patty asked.

“Don’t know,” I replied. “Haven’t talked with her all week. She’s off the case now.”

“And why would that be?”

“Because she showed human concern for me on the flight back when she figured out your code,” I said. Patty’s eyes widened in surprise and, I thought, a bit of fright.

“You mean you didn’t…you didn’t figure out…”

“No,” I said. “You’d have gotten away with it all if it hadn’t been for Alba.”

“Oh, my God,” she moaned, as the baggage claim began to move.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“You really weren’t supposed to know I was meeting Steven,” she said. “I have to be completely honest about that. If everything had gone how I had planned, I’d be coming home happy now, and you would have been saved a lot of unnecessary worry.”

“And you’d have lied to me and gotten away with it,” I said, as the first bags fell to the carousel. “I have to be completely honest about that.”

“I know. But there are things that need to stay hidden, if you catch my meaning.”

“No, I don’t,” I said matter-of-factly. “I don’t catch your meaning at all. You said you wanted the benefit of the doubt from me, and you admitted just now that you had tried to deliberately mislead me. Now, when am I supposed to trust you again?”

“That’s up to you, Rob,” she said, as her bags finally appeared.

“Don’t you dare leave this up to me,” I said. “It’s not right and what’s more, you know it. We’re still married and that means we still try to do things as a team, right?”

“Sure,” she replied, as I picked up her two heaviest bags.

“It’s gonna be a long walk to the car, Patty,” I said, as we headed toward the press pack one more time. “It’ll give you something to think about as we go.”

# # #

[tenthreeleader]

Sunday, October 18

My home is a demilitarized zone now, which is the best thing I can hope for.

We did our own things today – Patty was as good as her word in Monaco by spending her day in the garden preparing it for winter – and I watched the two Sunday matches.

Yesterday, Chelsea kept rolling along by topping Middlesbrough 2-1. Daniel Alves and Vedran Corluka did the business for Chelsea while Thomas Buffel netted a too-late reply for Boro.

Wayne Rooney went off with a back strain during United’s 1-1 draw with Newscastle at Old Trafford, a potentially serious injury for Steve Coppell to deal with. Vagner Love had put the Magpies on top five minutes into the match only to see Louis Saha split the points ten minutes from time. Yet, all eyes are on Wazza.

Arsenal hardly broke a sweat in dismissing Sunderland 3-0 at the Emirates. Emmanuel Adebayor scored on either side of the interval before Kolo Toure netted in the 68th minute to put some added gloss on the scoreline.

Villa is showing signs of coming out of its season-long slumber, defeating fellow strugglers Wigan at VIlla Park. Gabby Agbonlahor and Zat Knight found the range for the home team.

Bolton and West Brom played an entertaining 2-2 draw at the Reebok to split the points. Balázs Dzsudzsák opened the scoring for the Baggies only to see Kevin Nolan pull the Trotters level right after the break.

Oscar Trejo continues to play well for Bolton, and his goal in the 73rd minute looked like it might hold up. But Omar Bravo picked up the equalizer as the match rolled into added time, to send everyone home unsatisfied.

Two goals from James Vaughan inside the first 25 minutes helped Everton cruise to a 2-0 win over a lackluster West Ham at Goodison Park.

And, one of our upcoming opponents picked up an away win. Sven-Goran Eriksson’s Manchester City won 2-1 at Fortress Fratton thanks to Arnold Mvuemba putting through his own goal 55 minutes into the match. Marouane Chamakh had equalized for Pompey just six minutes prior, erasing Rolando Bianchi’s opener.

So much for solid effort. City are up to seventh now and we’ll have to be ready for them. We travel to Manchester on the 25th in our first match after the Barcelona tie in the Champions League.

Today’s matches weren’t high-profile, but they were certainly entertaining.

The early kickoff saw Kevin Doyle break open a drab match for Blackburn against Spurs with a thunderous finish two minutes before the interval.

Not to be outdone, Jermaine Jenas had the teams level in first half injury time before Younes Kaboul put them ahead 18 minutes from time.

Having seen this happen to my teams before, I had to snicker a bit as the former Birmingham man Garry O’Connor picked up an equalizer deep into second half injury time. It ended 2-2.

The other match was a bit surprising, as Derby played easily its best match of the season in knocking off Fulham 3-1.

An opener by Maceo Rigters and the first two goals of the season from New Zealand international Chris Killen staked the Rams to a 3-0 lead within 31 minutes. Billy Sharp pulled one back for the Cottagers before half but Derby held off their visitors with ease afterward to claim a needed win.

Yet those matches really didn’t command my attention. The latest from La Liga did.

Barcelona are really struggling.

The surprise team of the Spanish league is Getafe, and they defeated our Catalan opponents 2-1 before a surprisingly small crowd at the Coliseum Alfonso Pérez yesterday. That was the match I watched closely.

I saw a Barcelona team in disarray. It fell behind to a goal from Babacar Gueye early in the second half and even though the incomparable Lionel Messi equalized thirteen minutes from time, Gueye gave his team a well-deserved win in the 87th minute with a scorcher past Victor Valdés.

Barca managed only five shot attempts in 90 minutes and looked thoroughly off its stroke. I had never seen them play so poorly – and it is showing in their record.

Frank Rijkaard’s men will come to the Mad Stad in ninth place in their league, winners of just three of their first eight league matches. They are winless in their last three in La Liga and in their last four overall – and when was the last time you could say that about them?

Watching the television intently, my feverish mind actually saw a few things we might be able to exploit. It will still take total effort from us to beat them, but after watching Getafe do it, I am coming to the realization that anything may in fact be possible.

As I finished my note-taking, Patty re-entered the living room. She crossed behind me and rested her hands on my shoulders.

I looked up into her pretty, and seemingly penitent, face.

“I love you, Rob,” she offered, giving me a slight squeeze as she spoke.

I reached up behind me and rested my hands on hers.

“I love you too, Patty,” I responded. We fell into silence.

# # #

[tenthreeleader]

Monday, October 19

There is very little time to prepare.

One day, to be precise. As a result, our training session was light but intense.

That’s unfortunate, because I do see areas we might be able to exploit against Barcelona. On the other hand, it’s also fortunate because I would not like to have more than a few days to think about the kind of team we’ll face – even if that team is out of form.

For ourselves, we’re very much the unknown commodity in Europe so my hope is that our fabled opposition will take us lightly.

Our players certainly won’t take Barca for granted. For example, Baptista’s inner Madridista came out today.

He would light himself on fire to start in this match – and with Kitson a doubt for the match, he will almost certainly not need to resort to such drastic action.

Julio had a difficult match against Liverpool, and has fallen away from the fine early form he showed after joining us. The time has come for me to gently prod him to a better performance, because now more than ever, we need him.

I like the thought of entering that match feeling there’s unfinished business. Naturally we can’t play well all the time but by the numbers we were good enough on Saturday to win.

Yet we didn’t. So there’s that.

We were also spurred on, perhaps more humorously, by the worst headline of the season.

The Sun weighed in with a frightful misplay on words on our upcoming opponents’ name.

“No Barca-loungers” rested atop the sports page.

It was the subject of a good laugh in the changing room, but as hackneyed as the turn of phrase was, it was at least better than the more conventional “Ridgways in free-fall” that adorned the top of the gossip pages.

In fact, Dillon noticed the pressure on me as we took training today.

He could hardly have missed it, but as the pack of journalists from around Europe gathered to talk about both Barcelona and about my wife, he had the answer in humor.

“Rob,” he said with a deadpan expression, “I’ll give you a fiver if you moon the press.”

It was the right thing to say. I started laughing and for a moment, seriously considered his offer.

“Don’t tempt me,” I said, continuing to smile. “How about a double bird instead?”

“Naah, not as good,” he said. “Mooning makes a better quality statement.”

# # #

[ScottT!]

I've spent the last three/four days reading this and, as been said on countless occasion, it's f***ing superb. I admit, usually I read the first parts of stories and then scroll through to see results and how people are doing. After all, the football side is what everyone likes, it's what we play the game for right?! Yet this is one of the very few stories where I enjoy the non-footballing side of things as much if not, at times, more! That is probably the biggest compliment I can pay. You've managed to come onto a board specifically designed for football fans, writing a story specifically designed for football fans, and made the non-football side the bit everyone wants to see! Brilliant.

The only thing I feel right now though, is annoyed! I kept saying to myself throughout reading 'don't catch up, you'll have nothing to read.' Having ignored my own advice I join the vast amounts of people who are now logging on daily, just to see if you have more for us.

Keep this up mate. I'm sure you will, of course.

P.S - Have you ever read 'Reading - Between the Lines' by Stuart Roach? It's a story by a Reading fan and journalist (not unsimilar to your Jill Weatherby character) about their first season in the top flight from the perspective of players, staff etc etc. It's an excellent book, one which I've no doubt you'd enjoy. It might also give you a little more insight into matchdays at Reading, which can never be a bad thing!

[tenthreeleader]

Scott, thank you for your thoughtful comments and welcome to the Rat Pack! I'm always glad to welcome new readers to the thread though I must admit that picking this tale up from the beginning is quite a large ask now.

If you're looking for additional reading, you might want to check out 'American Calcio', if you have not already done so. It explains the back story, especially RR's relationship with The Supporters.

I am not familiar with the book you mentioned but now I really need to buy it. I try to be as accurate as I can in my match details -- for example, my descriptions of the area underneath the stadium are rendered from a 360-degree tour available online - so it appears as though 'Reading - Between The Lines' will be required reading for me as soon I can nab a copy. It's even available here in the USA so that will be a nice little present for myself. Thank you for the recommendation!

As for updates: yes, I'm proud to say that this story is approaching its second birthday and has been updated daily since its first post on 4 August 2008. I don't see it stopping any time soon.

___

The pack had had a field day with Patty and me, mainly because we wouldn’t talk with them at the airport.

In the tabloid press, no comment is as good as giving them the answer they want, and giving them any answer at all is an admission that they exist.

So, there’s just no winning with some people. It was open season.

In the finest tradition of British journalistic savagery, The Sun took its best shot at the 'happy couple':

“It might not be Kramer v Kramer, but it’s close.

Sources close to delectable Patty Ridgway have disclosed that she is ready to pull the plug on her brief marriage to Reading FC boss Rob Ridgway.

RR, who is reportedly on the hot seat with the Royals after a series of disappointments in the Premiership that have his team in a disappointing spot outside the top four, may now have more time to concentrate on his job and less time to concentrate on his family.

That’s because his family may be shrinking by two-thirds.

Patty, who is pregnant and expecting early next year, has reportedly contacted Hollywood mega-mouthpiece Adrian Levant regarding divorce proceedings.

Yet Levant, who also represented Rob Ridgway during his recent contract negotiations with Reading FC, will likely take himself off the case due to a rather obvious conflict of interest.

It all stems from Patty Ridgway’s reported cosy arrangement with her former bodyguard. Ex-SAS officer Steven Hardcastle, fired by the jealous Rob Ridgway when the two got too close, appears ready to live up to his surname with regard to the American model.

To make matters worse, Rob Ridgway reportedly intercepted a secret love message between the two during the recent international break, when the Ridgways repaired to Monaco in a last-ditch effort to restore their marriage.

Police reports in Bordeaux indicated that it was Hardcastle – and not Rob Ridgway or anyone he employs – who protected Patty during the shooting incident last week that shocked the nation.

The sum total of the week for Rob Ridgway – a marital own goal from which it’s highly likely there is no way back.”

# # #

I get tired of the discussion. I get tired of the speculation.

But I can’t do anything about it except get it right. The question is whether I want to go through that kind of pain.

I wondered who could have leaked details about the text messages to the press. The only person I could think of was Alba.

Yet that didn’t make sense. It’s an active criminal investigation. Why would she do such a thing?

What I need, more than ever now, is a friend in the media who will help.

It was in that regard that I called Weatherby this afternoon.

# # #

[chesterfan2]

****Comment removed for reasons of having been acted on******

Plus it's a fab story.

[tenthreeleader]

Thanks for the observation, cf; I have made a change to yesterday's entry.

___

Tuesday, October 20

Reading v Barcelona (1-0-1, 1st place Group F, 3-3-2, 9th place La Liga) – Champions League Group Stage Match Day #3

“Come on, fellows, where else would you rather be?”

It was hardly necessary, but the Yankee in me felt the need to provide a little extra motivation to the troops.

A very light and very quick training session in the morning was designed solely to get the blood pumping, and for me, it was a chance to get my mind off the events of the night.

I felt we could take them. Their form has been most unlike Barcelona, and if we played to our capacity my thought was that we might surprise them.

They have the ability to ruin any team they face due to their high level of individual skill, but the problem they have had of late is an inability to work with Frank Rijkaard’s team framework.

When they get behind, their team concept has scattered to the four winds, and that’s what I felt we could exploit.

“The better team is going to win the match tonight,” I told the players as they did their stretching exercises. I was walking up and down the rows of stretching players, a rare enough thing for me but also an indication that I absolutely expected them to listen to my words.

“We are playing this club twice in succession in this competition,” I reminded them. “I want you to look at this event as a chance to show how you stack up over two legs against one of the best club teams in the world. We want to become a part of that short list and I want nothing less than total effort from you over these next two European matches. Our survival in Europe may well depend on how you perform over these next two weeks.”

They looked at me with varying degrees of levity, but they all knew that if they didn’t listen they wouldn’t play and it was just that simple.

“You’re going to hear me talk about things in the press over these next couple of weeks,” I warned them. “Anyone who makes so much as a peep about what I say in public is going to have trouble they don’t want.”

I then reached into my Jim Thomson bag of tricks.

“If that happens, you’re going to have a conversation with Mr. Ridgway,” I said. “And I don’t care what you mean to this club, that will be a conversation you will not relish. You know I wouldn’t talk with you like this unless I meant it – and by God, I do.”

That got everyone’s attention.

“All right, get out there and show me you want to play tonight,” I said. “We’ll start with sprints and then go into the close-control drills. Tonight’s going to be all about possession and we want to have it. Now get to it.”

With that I went to the touchline – instead of to Mount Majdeski, as I was starting to call my perch high overhead – to supervise training.

So it was that the owner visited me while I ran training.

It is very, very rare for Sir John to make an appearance on the training ground but I guess he was as excited as anyone else. Workers were feverishly putting things in place for the arrival of the crowd later that evening – including laying the groundwork for the largest card show the club has ever attempted. We all knew the importance of the day.

“They will be ready, of course,” he said, by way of greeting.

“You may rely on it,” I told him. He extended his hand, and we shared a cordial handshake.

“We have a lot riding on this,” he reminded me.

“Of course,” I replied, now turning my attention back to the matters at hand on the training pitch. “There’s a lot riding on every match, I understand that.”

“How are things at home, Rob?” he asked, in a complete change of tack that ripped my gaze from the drills in front of me and back onto my employer.

“Passable,” I said. “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”

“You probably do need time,” he said.

“We all need time,” I said, turning back to the ground. Baptista and Dagoberto had moved onto the close-control drill and were knocking the ball back and forth between themselves with surprising speed and gratifying skill.

“I see,” he replied. “Well, do not be afraid to ask for it – and do not be afraid to use your staff for additional delegation.”

That was twice that he had made me turn away from training. Not only was it unprecedented, it was also a little annoying.

“How do you mean?” I asked. “I have my routine and my assistants know what it is.”

“You know perfectly well that there are managers who spend less time at the ground and less time in the training area,” he said. “You played for some of them. All I am telling you is that if you would like to take the more traditional role of some English managers to improve your home and family life, I would encourage you to do so.”

My head was starting to spin. We could certainly have had this conversation at a different time than nine hours before the most important match in the history of the club.

Summoning the last of my self-control, I nodded my head.

“I’ll think about that, Sir John,” I said. “Really, I will. But right now what I need to do is to prepare for the match so I still have a job to worry about. Would that be all right?”

Thankfully, we were both smiling at the time.

“Of course, Rob,” Sir John said. “All I am trying to do is ensure that my key staff has the ability to take care of personal business. I should think you’d like that.”

Now I turned one last time.

“I would indeed,” I told him. “After the match.”

# # #

[tenthreeleader]

Patty sat at home, studying her e-mail.

Everything had gone wrong, from her point of view. And it was about to get worse.

There was another note, from Hardcastle, and he wasn’t letting up.

“The police are questioning me about McGuire,” he informed her. She really didn’t want to read any further, given Hardcastle’s rather shocking lack of discretion both in electronic communication – and in life in general.

“I’m holding the line. You know I had nothing to do with that idiot, so that’s easy with Fowler. Fulton is different – you know that too. She’s got her hooks into your husband, I’d bet on that.”

“Just beware,” he concluded. “I can only protect you so far, especially if your husband won’t see reason.”

“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?” she hissed. “How am I supposed to make decisions based on that kind of information?”

She noticed that he wouldn’t call her husband by name – the classic refuge of someone who is in denial. That raised her eyebrows, but it didn’t surprise her.

Patty tossed her BlackBerry onto the couch beside her and sagged heavily into her favorite chair in the living room.

She flipped on the television set and put her feet on a cushion.

At that point, she felt a flutter inside her.

The baby was moving.

The little one hadn’t done a whole lot of that in recent days but now that it was happening again, Patty had the opportunity to sit back and think while she felt little flutters, kicks and punches inside her body.

Whether a boy or a girl – and she hadn’t asked her doctor to tell her which through ultrasound – the baby certainly packed a punch.

The feelings she had as the unborn child either struggled for space, stretched out or was perhaps involved in some sort of conditioning drill really did surprise her.

She sat perfectly still in her chair and pulled up the bottom of her shirt to past her stomach.

She watched her stomach move ever so slightly as the baby continued to wrestle with whatever unseen force was giving it impetus.

She sighed quietly to herself.

“You really are a selfish woman sometimes,” she said to herself, pulling her shirt back down. “But just this time, just this once, it has to be this way.”

# # #

[copperhorse21]

Like real life, I never seem to really know what is going on in the mind of women...lol Well done yet again with the intrigue...I imagine most men would find Fulton's claws in them to be quite pleasurable, but, as evidenced by multiple story posts, Rob is atypical in this respect.

[tenthreeleader]

Copper, I suppose that is true with regard to Alba. She does have an allure to Rob, who is trying mightily to remind himself that someone else has her claws in first. Whether he wants them there is a topic for conjecture.

___

I loved the atmosphere in the place.

Though with only one-third the seating capacity of the Nou Camp, the Mad Stad was rocking with noise like its more illustrious counterpart as the teams took to the pitch for warm-ups.

The most anticipated match in the history of Reading Football Club was about to get under way and the problem I had wasn’t with motivation.

It was with demotivation.

Blue and white banners and flags were flying all over the stadium, and as the stadium tannoy system cranked out our usual pre-match warmup music, it was all nearly drowned out by singing.

I had never seen anything like it. Some of the places I had played – including Ibrox in the Old Firm, which I had thought was the noisiest place I had ever been in – paled by comparison.

The faithful were out in force and they were … well … they were faithful.

We made it through warm-ups without injury, so the team talk was quite measured as a result.

“Guys, I know you have a lot of energy and when you go out there tonight and hear the Champions League theme it’s going to be quite an experience,” I said. “But you have got to stay within our framework and within our plan, or it’s going to be an experience you won’t want to remember. They are out of form now – and it is your job to make sure they stay out of form. This is clearly not a task that is beyond you.”

“Remember that our goal tonight is a fast start. If we get that start, let’s use this great crowd we’ve got tonight and ride it. It’s our ground, it’s our night. You have to decide as players whether this is our moment. I think it is. Fix the things that kept you off the scoreboard against Liverpool and make this a famous night. You can do it.”

I gathered the squad in a circle in the center of the changing room and sent them off with a quick cheer. It was time to see if these players could calm down enough to play.

Sure enough, the Champions League hymn managed to jack up the crowd even further, as did the playing of Lux Aeterna as the players lined up to take the field.

As they did, the scoreboard showed updated highlights from the season, including Dicã’s goal that beat Arsenal in our first big victory of the year. His single-handed demolition of Newcastle was also prominent in the highlight package.

It was a powerful video piece, especially given the atmosphere in the place. That was true even if most of the bigger moments of the season have come away from home.

It didn’t seem to impress the visitors, though. They were used to getting their opponent’s best shot every time and even though we had a strong and very loud crowd, they didn’t flinch.

Victor Valdes led their lineup and for the time being stood next to captain Carles Puyol. They were all there – Iniesta, Xavi, the incomparable Ronaldinho and the equally incomparable Messi. How such an aggregation of talent could be playing so poorly and sitting ninth in its league just stunned me.

I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, though. They weren’t playing well and I thought we could take them.

At the end of the line I stood next to Rijkaard. If the nattily dressed Dutchman was feeling any pressure, he sure wasn’t showing it.

I suppose I must have looked like my hair was on fire by comparison.

Thankfully there hasn’t been much more fallout from the tabloid stories regarding Patty since she got home, though I don’t know how much longer that will last.

Right now, though, those concerns were quite far down the pecking order. The visitors were at the top, and they looked to be filled with malicious intent.

The lines began to move, and the crowd began to scream once more. If you couldn’t get psyched up for a match like this one, you didn’t belong in the game.

# # #

[chesterfan2]

I've gotta say it. I love the atmosphere in your place too.

Marvelously written, sir. Long may it continue.

[tenthreeleader]

cf, thank you for the compliments and for your readership. This match did sort of capture my imagination!

___

I shook hands with Rijkaard before we headed to our respective dugouts, and from the beginning of this match I was on the touchline.

I was that way at Padova, but this season I’ve been much more sedate during matches. I think that’s more in keeping with the traditional English managerial mold, but the fact of the matter was that I was as nervous as I’ve ever been in my life.

So, my formerly trademark pacing it was a way to burn off nervous energy as much as anything else. With the intensity my team had shown during the warmup and their preparation, I felt I owed it to them to match that intensity through my own person.

I suppose that was something else Rijkaard was used to seeing from those who oppose him. He sat impassively in his dugout and I wondered how he did it.

In addition to managing one of the world’s most notable club sides, he also seemed to look like a fashion plate.

I take pride in my appearance – for this match I wore a royal blue suit, a white silk shirt and a powder blue silk tie knotted to perfection in my traditional reverse half-Windsor worn with a matching pocket square – but Rijkaard was dressed to the nines as well.

In addition to Reading v Barcelona, the match was also evidently a battle between Brooks Brothers and Armani.

Putting all that aside for a moment, I was able to concentrate on the match.

We started surprisingly well. Just three minutes into the match we generated a good scoring opportunity as Baptista played through Kitson – who had obviously passed his late fitness test – and my targetman stung Valdes’ hands from just inside the area.

It was a promising start. The middle of the Barca formation proved to be as soft against us as it had been against Getafe.

Dillon caught my eye from the bench and gave me an knowing expression. There was one way to attack this team and we were going to do it like men or die trying.

As usual, Barca played a free-wheeling, offensive style. They are Barca. That’s what people expect from them.

Yet we didn’t look frightened. Their 4-2-3-1 had Samir Nasri playing off Eto’o as a lone striker, supported on the wings by Ronaldinho and Messi. They may have had only one striker, but there was still plenty to worry about in that alignment.

Not surprisingly, Rijkaard’s choice put a fair bit of pressure on our full backs, most notably Pogatetz who had the task of keeping Messi more or less under control.

Seeing no real way to compete with them with only three across the middle, it was 4-4-2 for me again, with Kalou and Maloney detailed to help with the wings as required.

Yet Pogatetz, in the early going, seemed to be doing all right with Messi. That was one worry off my mind.

Now Sonko came to charge down a long-range effort by Eto’o, and the play flowed back and forth with a very gratifying ease for a time after he was done.

Dicã then intercepted a Milito header that wasn’t quite powerful enough to clear Barca’s lines and managed to move in for an effort that didn’t trouble Valdes – but which gave us two reasonable scoring opportunities in the first five minutes.

Clearly, the players were up for the fight. We were looking like we had some intent and already looked better than we had for the overwhelming majority of the Liverpool match.

Valdes’ goal kick found the head of Huth, who nodded the ball to the left some considerable distance, where it found Kitson.

The targetman was then presented with a comparatively rare opportunity to lead the attack. Often, with his back to goal, he’ll do just the opposite – holding up the play before laying off to one of the wings or trying to thread the ball through to a strike partner.

This time, though, he was facing the goal and as we Americans say, he was full of “p**s and vinegar”.

The former, he’d have to wait until halftime to deal with. The latter was resolved with a pass to the left for the in-flight Maloney.

The Scotsman then worked a 1-2 with the rampaging Dicã, which moved the ball to the edge of the Barca area. He faked to the byline and then cut sharply inside, giving the rather shocked Gianlucci Zambrotta the slip.

He looked over, and slid a wonderful little ball – to Kitson, who had never stopped running.

Kitson brought the ball to control with a very deft first touch, and slid the ball past Valdes with ridiculous ease as the Mad Stad exploded with joy.

[tenthreeleader]

Seven minutes in, we led the Catalans and Kitson was beside himself. Since playing with twelve is illegal, it was up to his teammates to bring him back down to the ground.

The dream start I craved now already on the board, we needed to prepare for the riposte we knew was coming.

The best way to do that was to hold the ball, so my instructions with spread arms to slow the game were ones I really hoped would be obeyed.

It went against every instinct of my nature. When Americans score one goal, we want two. When we score two, we want three. It has been the biggest part of the learning process I have undergone as a manager to learn when to let up.

Still, they came back strongly, stung from falling behind early.

Xavi, Iniesta and Eto’o came forward three abreast, and for most teams that would have required a change of shorts from the central defenders and at least one midfielder.

It nearly did for ours as well, with Iniesta putting a cheeky little ball right onto the toe of Eto’o just inside our area. He split Huth and Sonko with two powerful strides and Lobont came out to challenge, with my captain making a superb reflex save from the Cameroonian’s low, angled drive.

Now it was our turn to come back, as the match ebbed and flowed at a pulsating pace. Kalou’s cross from the byline looking for Baptista was headed behind by a suddenly frantic Iniesta, giving us a corner that Maloney was more than ready to take.

His perfectly placed effort found Huth at the edge of the six, with the big German unmarked by anyone wearing Barcelona colors – but he headed over.

Moments later, Barca were right back on the attack, with Eto’o taking Iniesta’s slide-rule pass and blasting an effort that unfortunately for him found Huth’s shin guard.

Iniesta was trying his best to impose his will upon the early going, but his cross was neatly turned out by Magallón, who was equally determined to deny him. That led to a quick counterattack for us, with Dicã leading the surge with a neat ball toward Kitson in a reprise of the play that had led to our goal.

This time it was Magallón who didn’t stop running, and Kitson’s pass in the Mexican international’s direction surprised just about everyone on the field.

Unfortunately, it didn’t fool Xavi, who read the game beautifully with a tackle that reminded Jonny why he isn’t a striker.

And so the play went.

Nasri missed wide left, Kitson missed wide right. The play was still flowing, fast and furious, and Huth was blocking just about every attempt made in his general direction.

One thing Barca was doing very well was putting the ball in threatening positions – but we were dealing with those threats in an equally pleasing fashion. We were allowing too many corners for my liking, but we were defending them very well indeed, with Huth and Sonko acting as our Twin Towers directly in front of Lobont.

Zambrotta and Milito were the tallest outfield players Barca had out there at 5’11”, which made them four inches shorter than both Sonko and Huth. They weren’t getting a sniff from their corners through the air and resorted to short options in short order.

So there was that, anyway. They couldn’t get into our area through the air. They were reduced to longer-range efforts or trying to move the ball into good positions on the floor, which they were of course more than capable of doing.

Finally, the match slowed down until our trouble time of right before the half.

At that point Kalou, who has been one of our steadiest players all season long, made a simply rock-headed pass right on the center stripe that was picked off with ease by Nasri, who countered immediately with Iniesta on his right.

That called Lobont into action again, with the Romanian tipping Iniesta’s rising drive over the bar for yet another Barca corner, which actually found Milito.

However, he was covered like the proverbial blanket by Sonko, and the only place he could head the ball was harmlessly over the bar. It was fine work against their set pieces and it did bring a smile to the face of the old central defender in the blue touchline suit.

Nasri tried gamely to beat Sonko to still another corner moments later but the Senegalese so dominated Nasri that the Frenchman fell in a heap. He hobbled to the touchline, the picture of Barca’s frustration in the first half.

We were pretty good. They weren’t so much. As Getafe had shown the weekend before, Barcelona – for the time being – were sound and fury signifying nothing.

Massimo Busacca blew for halftime. Rijkaard had work to do.

# # #

[Jamcee]

It's been a while since I've been on the FMS boards, so I've had plenty to catch up on. And catch up I have. Still brilliant, 10-3, still wonderful to read and lose yourself in. Hat's off for a truely wonderful piece of art.

As an aside, will the season finish in time for this to enter this years awards?

Jam

[tenthreeleader]

Jamcee, I'm going to break silence here to answer your question and then post over this with tomorrow's post unless other comments pass it down the thread. Thank you for your kind words.

Rat Pack is no longer eligible for a major award as it has won Story of the Year. Also, Rob Ridgway is not eligible for award as he has won Character of the Year.

Terk is the guru of the awards process and I don't know if any other characters in this story are eligible for that honor since one of them has won. Perhaps he will comment on that in the appropriate place in the forum (either here or in the story discussion thread, as he chooses, if he chooses).

As I was not nominated at mid-term for any awards, the only thing I could win at this point would be an individual award such as WOTY, or for a current, award-eligible story such as Final Frontier to be nominated in the second round this fall.

[Terk]

I'll answer this question in here to keep things in the same place. As 10-3 says, Rat Pack isn't eligible to win awards and neither is Rob Ridgway. This rule was brought in to prevent one story sweeping the awards year after year; it had got to the point where stories with (deservedly) great reputations, such as Raptor's epic 'When the Belfast Saints....' were taking awards based largely on reputation. We have felt it important to ensure that other writers and other stories are given an opportunity to shine in the awards.

However, any character other than Rob Ridgway from this story is very much eligible to win the Best Character award. Over the past few years we have had some wonderful 'secondary' characters in the forum, but none have received the awards recognition that they perhaps deserve.

I hope that makes sense, I'm writing this at nearly two in the morning. If you have any further questions on it, then you can either PM me or post in the Story Ideas & Discussions thread.

Now, on with the tale, good sir.

[Spav]

10-3, still reading, still hooked. KUTGW

[tenthreeleader]

Gentlemen, thanks very much! Jamcee, nice to have you back; Terkleton, thanks for the clarification, and Spav, I'm really happy this has held your interest for this long -- I know you have been reading from the beginning.

___

His first work was replacing Zambrotta with Rafael Marquez in an effort to get someone with a little height onto the pitch.

Now, Barca had an outfield player who at least was six feet tall. It seemed an obvious move, since the seven corners they had generated in the first half had led to practically nothing in the way of good scoring chances.

As we expected, the visitors tried to carry the play in the early moments of the second half as well, with Nasri knocking an effort in the general direction of the Thames as the opening salvo of the half.

Our response came through our secret weapon, Magallón. He skipped right on by Xavi to take a very creative little chip from Dicã after the ensuing goal kick but again his finishing skills were lacking.

That didn’t seem to matter to the fans watching their heroes go toe-to-toe with the mighty Catalans, and giving better than they got in the process. It was dream stuff.

So, the fans were singing. They were as creative as our players, which made me smile and blush from time to time, but as they say it was the thought that counted. They were in excellent voice.

Standing on the touchline and pacing back and forth like a caged animal, I reviewed my tactics in my head at breakneck speed.

They had been spot on to that point. The four in the midfield were standing strong but as the match approached the hour it was time for the first change.

Kitson’s physical strength was formidable, but not having played in the last few matches his legs weren’t quite up to snuff yet. With Lita’s pace at the ready, we had the chance to really stretch out the game and use our counterattacking skill. I felt it was the right time, and as the match moved to 61 minutes, on he came.

The fast striker now switched roles, with Baptista now asked to hold the ball. He had been fairly quiet in the first half but that was because Barca had had to account for him.

That special attention had opened avenues for Kitson, who Rijkaard had felt was clearly the lesser of two evils.

Now they had to account for Lita, which so many Premiership teams had been unable to do last season.

Iniesta and Eto’o marked Lita’s arrival into the match with another quick attack, but Eto’o screwed his shot well wide once more. They were moving the ball into places they probably wanted to have it, but their finishing application was shockingly poor, especially for a team of their quality.

In short, their funk was continuing and I was determined to let the giant sleep.

Unfortunately, Ferreira wasn’t. He put an unfortunate mark on a heretofore flawless match by grabbing hold of Ronaldinho and going for a brisk evening drag on 65 minutes.

Busacca showed the Portuguese a rather richly deserved yellow card, which considering the length of the shirt pull involved made me think the card might have been a different color.

I turned to Dillon on the bench, who couldn’t help but smile since we still had eleven on the pitch.

“Man, did you see that shirt pull?” I smiled. “Paolo made him look like Plasticman.”

“Don’t smile too wide, Rob,” Dillon warned. “The cameras are on.”

He had a point. More negative publicity was the last thing I needed.

Eto’o then missed with an overhead kick as Barca’s attempts at goal grew from the merely low-percentage to the farcical.

Watching Eto’o, I actually rubbed my eyes. Barcelona was pressing to make something happen. I thought it was quite flattering, even as it was necessary for them in terms of game management. They were taking opportunities wherever they could be found – and there was still a lot of time to be played.

[dan_simmonds]

Great stuff 10-3 - Like many others have said, the football has been playing second fiddle to the story arc's which ultimately says it all about your writing.

[tenthreeleader]

Dan, I do appreciate it! Thank you for the comments! Lately I have had a nice variety - the international breaks let me advance plot lines and it's always fun to write about the football

___

There were still twenty-five minutes to play, but we were starting to really wear them down.

Lita, of all people, gave a prime example when he won a high jump contest with Puyol and headed a short Valdes goal kick back to Dicã to cycle possession. That interchange eventually resulted in Baptista getting an opportunity to shoot just over the bar from right outside the area.

We had set the opportunity up as well as any all season, but against the caliber of this opposition it was extra special. Our passing was fluid, our movement on and off the ball was the stuff of a contender. Our understanding was as good as I had ever seen it and even Barca was helpless to stop us putting the ball right where we wanted it to go.

Iniesta and Dicã clashed heads after an increasingly rare Barcelona corner in the 70th minute minute. Due to blood, the Barcelona player went off first for treatment and then to the showers when Rijkaard decided Gerard Piqué would be a better idea in his place.

Now Barca had a player who could compete with Huth and Sonko in the air. It was hardly Barcelona-style football, but Rijkaard wanted a way to get into the box through the air. He was bound and determined, and since he had the last word, he was going to have his way.

Pique was brought on to clog our box and, to an extent, for offensive intent, but it turned out his club needed him defensively first.

Shortly after he came on, we attacked down Kalou’s side. He whipped a cross into the middle – and again Lita outjumped Puyol.

His ferocious header was just a bit too close to Valdes, though, and the keeper palmed it over the top with a crowd-pleasing save – or rather, it would have been a crowd-pleaser if Lobont had done it.

All it did was generate a corner for us, and Maloney trotted over to take it.

Pique moved to take on Baptista as his marking assignment. The former Madrista glowered at the Barca substitute, wanting more than anything to make an impact on the match.

That left Puyol against Lita again – but with some help. Milito shaded over to Puyol’s side as Maloney moved up to take the corner.

Unfortunately for Rijkaard, the three central defenders ganging up on my two forwards left no one to handle Huth.

The big German strode forward and met Maloney’s corner flush with his forehead right at the edge of the six.

Valdes never had a chance, and when the ball hit the ground, we were two up with sixteen minutes to play.

Huth’s first goal for the club couldn’t have come at a better time. With Barcelona showing some signs of intent, our second goal was insurance that had them back on their heels.

With the second goal in the net, I pulled Baptista in favor of the fully warmed up Bikey, and moved to a 4-5-1 formation with two holding midfielders.

That marked the end of the night for the unfortunate Puyol, who left in favor of the Spanish u-21 international Bojan. Now Barca had an added option up front minus the slightly crocked Iniesta.

It did make me wonder why Rijkaard had chosen to substitute for Iniesta. He wanted to play to our strength instead of to his own, and I was fairly sure that if we got out of the match with three points the Spanish press would have an inquisition with the Dutch manager.

Barca slogged on, though, and before long Ronaldinho had worked his magic against Kalou, spinning and hooking the ball behind him to escape the close attentions of my Ivorian winger.

His flicked pass found Xavi, and in turn his ball found Eric Abidal in full flight down the left wing. He slipped past Ferreira, and crossed right into the heart of our box.

There was Eto’o, and there wasn’t Sonko. Ibrahima was ten yards up the park, left for dead by a wonderfully timed run and played onside by Huth.

He was all by himself, met the cross in the air, and gleefully volleyed past the helpless Lobont with five minutes to play.

And, I nearly blew a gasket.

[tenthreeleader]

“We have ten behind the ball and we let them have that?” I screeched, wheeling toward the bench as Eto’o wheeled off toward the center line in quiet but hurried celebration, ball tucked under his arm.

I grabbed Rosenior, who was headed towards me on a warmup run, and waved to the fourth official. The tiring Ferreira, who had been culpable for allowing Abidal past him with such ease, was ready to come off.

His being on a card as well made my decision even easier. I saw as Abidal had gone past him that Ferreira had thought better of a shirt pull that might have got him sent off, so it was time for a change.

I yelled in the substitute's ear as the crowd again began to get into the match.

“Liam, I want 5-4-1 with Huth sweeping, and if they get an equalizer you guys are going to run laps until tomorrow morning. You got it?”

“Got it, boss,” he said, without a trace of a smile.

“Good. Go get it done,” I ordered, and the substitution was made.

Four minutes of added time only added to my anxiety as the Catalans moved to the inevitable 4-2-4. For me, the only way to counteract that is to have more in the back then they have up front, so the 5-4-1 seemed the way to go.

Now with all eleven behind the ball, anywhere would do for a clearance. Thankfully, Huth had better thoughts, heading a loose ball back to Lobont instead of clearing it so the keeper could run a few precious seconds of time while waiting to kick.

We tried to play keep-away. It didn’t work.

We packed the box. That did work.

Eto’o finally broke through it with a minute to play but his cross was headed clear by Sonko – who this time was in position – and when referee Busacca blew for full time, the whole of Reading had something to really celebrate.

Barcelona was still off form. We led our Champions League group. And as the singing began afresh, it seemed to me that this group of players could write their own ticket.

Reading 2 (Kitson 6th 7’; Huth 1st 74)

Barcelona 1 (Eto’o 8th 85)

A – 30,806, Madejski Stadium, Reading

Man of the Match – Shaun Maloney, Reading (MR 8)

# # #

[Balthazars]

Unbelievable, why do you have to be so good at the management lark as well?

[tenthreeleader]

This was one of the two best wins I've ever had playing this game. A bit ironically, both came against Barcelona. My FM2007 Rangers side beat them to win my only European Cup playing the game back to 01-02.

I have three tactics I trust for this save now. This time, I found the right balance.

___

There was more good news from the other match in our group.

PSG hadn’t just beaten Hamburg, they had thrashed them by a 4-1 score that puts us seven points clear of the German champions, now fourth in their group.

It now looks highly likely that even if we falter at the turn in our group, we’ll survive in Europe in some capacity if we can do the business in our remaining home match against Hamburg.

I was very happy to meet the press after the match, with a lot to smile about.

“One of the best games we’ve played since I’ve been here, no question,” I said. “I think we’ve arrived on the European stage with this win and I think Frank might agree with that assessment.”

“What is it about this team that has led to such results?” a Spanish journalist wanted to know.

“If you mean why are these losers doing so well, I’ll take exception to that,” I said crossly. “These players have earned everything they’ve gotten this season and last, and I won’t have that kind of talk leveled at them, especially after a win like this one.”

“I mean no disrespect,” the journo said hastily. “It’s just that you don’t seem to have a lot of superstar players, yet you get results.”

The scribe had backtracked furiously – of course, that was exactly what he had meant – but I chose to let him off the hook due to being in a very good professional mood.

“The players don’t quit,” I said. “They are on a run of form that has lasted all season and we are going to enjoy this win. We have had total buy-in to our team concept so far this season, and that is the reason we get the results we do.”

“Did you ever feel threatened by Barcelona tonight?” Amazingly, that was Emiliani.

“If you had told me twelve months ago that I’d be answering this question tonight, I’d have said you were nuts, but I say that anyway,” I replied, and even he had to smile. “But really, I didn’t feel like they threatened us. I felt like they tried to attack us in an area where we had the advantage, which was through the air. We were a lot bigger physically than they were, we won virtually all of the 50-50 and physical challenges, and as a result we played the game we wanted to play. I suppose it would be unlike Barcelona for them to play a match in a manner of someone else’s choosing, but I think Frank’s substitutions showed that he was trying to beat us at our own game.”

Emiliani looked stumped. For the better part of two years he had been trying to tell the world that I didn’t know what I was doing, didn’t know what I was talking about, and generally didn’t deserve the positions I had held.

Now he had no ammunition. We are unbeaten in our first sixteen matches in all competitions to start the season and victory over Manchester City on Sunday in our next match will put us in a great position in our league as the halfway point approaches.

So, he was being respectful, even if I do think he’s biding his time.

In short, it was the type of conversation I’ve waited the better part of sixteen months to hold with the press. They couldn’t touch me.

As I left the stadium and headed to my car, the sounds of celebration could be heard all around the ground. I knew the pubs would be hopping and I expect to see news in tomorrow night’s Evening Post about a rising number of ‘Blue Flu’ cases after celebrations on the town by our thirsty supporters.

Barcelona is beaten. Heading home, I thought it was a pretty good day at the office.

# # #

[stoehrst]

Not that it makes you any less of a manager, 10-3, but I have to say I'm very, very surprised you've only won the CL once in FM. I think I took it 3 times (at least twice in a row) with Newcastle in my FM08 save during my five-season run of league titles and cup wins and doubles, trebles, and quadruples. I know I won the UEFA Cup twice each in FM07 and 08. With your undoubted talent for getting teams to vastly overachieve, as this save points out, I would've thought you'd at least taken down 2 or 3 CL titles in your FM time.

[tenthreeleader]

Well, part of that is due to the fact that I've only managed three teams in the Premiership and four in top flights since CM01-02, mainly due to the fact that it took me until FM06 to play a club other than Rushden and Diamonds. I've played lower leagues for the majority of my FM experience. Still, though sixteen unbeaten is as long as I've ever gone, I think.

Also, I write for every save I play on FM, so I don't tend to play longer-term saves as a result (for obvious reasons).

___

Then there was the matter of returning home.

Patty was on the phone when I arrived, talking with her father.

Right then I figured it was going to be a bad evening.

Instead, what I heard was gratifying.

“Dad, it was my choice to go to Monaco, not Rob’s,” she was saying. “You can’t pin this on him, okay? It was my choice.”

So she was in it as deep as I was, at least with her father.

There was a pause.

“Yes, I saw Steven,” she said. “Yes, he told me what he wanted me to hear. And no, I didn’t accept.”

Another pause.

“Because I don’t,” she said. “No matter what you or anyone else says. That is my decision and I’m going to make it. No one is going to make it for me.”

Another pause.

“No, I didn’t see the picture,” she said, a tone of irritation now in her voice. “I can’t control every picture that is taken of me, but if that is what the photographer saw, then that is what he saw. I can’t do anything about it, as much as I might like to.”

Her gaze was fixed on the far wall above the television set, where a framed picture of our wedding party hung neatly underneath pictures of our families. There were days where I had to stop myself from using Martin’s picture to practice dart tossing. Evidently, this was one of them.

Now he was turning up the heat again, but this time on his daughter.

That made no sense to me but as I sat in my chair and flipped through a copy of the Evening Post which would surely look a lot nicer tomorrow, I was simply biding my time until she was done.

It was like talking to a wall. I had had enough of that type of conversation so I am no longer on speaking terms with him as a result.

Soon she hung up the phone and turned to me.

“You never told me he was this bad,” she said.

“Sure I did,” I replied. “But you really needed to find out for yourself. He’s got a thick skull when it comes to you.”

“As you will, I’m sure, when the baby is born,” she answered.

“Possibly. But when the baby becomes an adult, a thick skull on Dad’s part becomes a liability rather than an asset.”

“I’m starting to see what you mean,” she mused, turning back to the television.

We sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Nice win tonight,” she finally offered.

“None bigger,” I answered, the first hint of a smile crossing my face in her presence for far too long.

“It’s too bad that smile isn’t about us,” she said.

“Well, it could be, if we could just get a few things out in the open,” I sighed.

“I’ve been as open as I can possibly be, Rob,” Patty answered. “What do I have to do?”

“We’ve been over it,” I said. “I have to convince myself that Hardcastle conveniently showing up on the doorstep of a restaurant in Bordeaux to save your life wasn’t a setup.”

“All I know is he was there, Rob,” she said. “I’ve tried to be as patient as I can be in explaining this. He offered to stay with me that night and I turned him down then too. He doesn’t seem to want to stop trying.”

“And so we come full circle,” I said. “What am I supposed to do?”

She thought it through for a long moment.

“Do you remember after Venice?” she finally asked.

“Yes. I am not likely to forget that.”

“I caught you holding Kate,” she said, and even though I didn’t care for her choice of words I knew where she was headed. “I left, and thought it through. I decided to forgive you and we got married as a result.”

“Rob, I need you to trust that I am telling you the truth as I trusted you when you said the same,” she added. “I don’t want him. I don’t want you to read between my lines, or parse my words. I…do…not…want…him.”

“All right, then, but let’s get one other thing dealt with.”

“What would that be?”

“I don’t want you accusing me of going behind your back to Alba.”

She looked into my eyes.

“That’s what this is really all about, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not,” I insisted. “It is about you and Hardcastle in my mind. You read an article by Emiliani and you came completely unglued regarding Alba. This isn’t the first time you have thought I’ve stepped out on you and it wasn’t true in either instance.”

“We have to learn to trust each other again,” I said. “It’s sad that we’ve come to this, but it’s really true. You know in your heart what you believe and I know in my heart what I believe. Now for the sake of that baby, we need to figure this out.”

“‘That baby’ is yours,” she said. “Rob, I can’t believe you said that.”

“Trust is a big thing with me,” I said. “I have to figure out a way to get through to you on that. There’s just too much out there for me to think about and I need some time.”

“I understand, because I need it too. But what I want you to understand more than anything is that I need my husband back. For crying out loud, Rob, someone tried to kill me last week and you’re worried about Steven Hardcastle!”

We stopped talking past each other and simply looked at each other.

“Patty, you and the baby could both have been killed,” I said. “Do you honestly think I don’t care about that?”

“Prove it to me,” she challenged.

I moved over in my chair, and she sat next to me.

“All right,” I said. “I will.”

# # #

[tenthreeleader]

Wednesday, October 21

I hope that proving things to Patty was a good idea.

I woke up with her still next to me, and that was a good thing. Our clothing was strewn haphazardly in various spots around the master bedroom, in a jumble as tangled as the bedclothes on our king-sized bed.

There had been no lack of emotion. After a brief interlude to greet the wiggling baby with a pat to her stomach, we had forgotten her expectant state for awhile.

Now she lay facing me as I woke to the sun’s rays on my face.

The master bedroom’s east exposure was the best natural alarm clock I could hope for, but even though training was scheduled for mid-morning I elected to stay in bed for a few extra minutes to simply think last night through.

In terms of relieving pressure, it was just what the doctor ordered. Physical pressure, anyway.

In terms of relieving emotional pressure, though, I can only wonder.

I’ve not made up my mind yet regarding her conduct with Hardcastle. At the very best, it was a selfish action that might have endangered both Patty and the baby.

At the very worst, it was simple infidelity and treachery.

There’s just no other way I can describe the choices, after all this time to think everything through.

I looked over at her, asleep and seemingly peaceful about it, and wondered why I am having such a hard time letting go.

The answer, of course, is simple. I want straight answers and the possibility of me getting those answers seems to be dwindling by the day.

“Why can’t you just enjoy what happened and leave it at that?” I asked myself, leaning back into the pillows.

“You have this real desire to avoid being happy,” I answered myself, staring at the ceiling.

Beside me, Patty shifted position, rolling from her left side facing me to her right side facing away from me.

Even that seemed symbolic. I sighed, and went back to sleep.

# # #

[robterrace]

Just caught up with this once more [its taken most of the day, excluding an hour when I was at the doctors]. Great to see the standard of writing hasn't changed.

[tenthreeleader]

Rob, welcome to the Rat Pack! Congratulations on making it all way through to this point! RR is sort of an institution now, (or perhaps he should be in one!)

___

It’s not surprising that the players were in fine spirits this morning.

We gave them a bit of a light day since our match with Manchester City isn’t until Sunday, but they are a team I would not mind beating.

They handled us last season when we went to Eastlands and that thought was still fresh in my mind as we had a morning video session.

I am already concerned about possible letdown, since the win last night was quite arguably the biggest in the history of the club. We thoroughly deserved to win, though, and I say that without ego (at least I think so). We were better. We should have won.

Now, though, my task is to get these players’ feet back on the ground for a tussle with Sven-Goran Eriksson, another pretty good tactician and manager.

I don’t see us changing a whole lot in terms of the eleven, except for the fact that Dagoberto, Kitson and Baptista are all going to be healthy and that’s nice. I need them all healthy and producing.

It was a pretty good morning across England in terms of the Champions League. Even though United failed to get a result out of Shakhtar Donestk, they still lead their group with seven points.

Carlos Tevez and Nemanja Vidic netted for United in a 2-2 draw, but perhaps more importantly the Red Devils lost Michael Carrick to a pair of broken ribs in one of the more shocking 50-50 challenges you’re likely to see.

Meanwhile, Giuseppi Rossi scored the only goal of the match for Chelsea, which defeated Lazio 1-0 at Stamford Bridge. All three of the English teams that have played three group matches lead their groups and we all have seven points.

Arsenal might do us one better tonight, playing in Lisbon against Sporting. The Gunners have won both their group matches so far and will likely lead their group after tonight as well.

Meanwhile, Rangers have a must-win at Ibrox against Slavia Prague tonight to stay within shouting distance. They lost comprehensively to the Gunners and drew with Sporting, so victory at home tonight against the Czechs is essential.

At the training ground, though, it was a day for tactical immersion for these players. There is a growing logjam at the top of the table and we need to be able to separate ourselves from the group following us.

This is another match where the teams will come in level on points. We’ll each have 23 –theirs from seven wins and two draws in ten matches while ours come from six wins and five draws.

That said, we’re fifth due to goal difference. The Big Four all stand ahead of us and we can’t afford a slip.

Liverpool appears much improved from last season’s disappointing team, and having gotten a point they probably didn’t deserve out of our ground they remain ahead of us. United, which started so strongly, is maintaining the pace, Arsenal has been playing wonderful stuff lately and Chelsea are champions until someone proves different.

So, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Today, though, I dealt with a room full of players who were pretty pleased with themselves for taking Barcelona’s scalps. While that’s great for morale purposes, I can’t allow that self-congratulation to continue at Eastlands.

Still, though, today was definitely a day to enjoy. Our win was clearly the glamour result out of the three English teams playing in the Champions League, so we soaked up the headlines.

The goalscorers got the bulk of the attention from the press, especially Huth. The German had his best game in our colors last night and that wasn’t just because he scored his first goal for the club.

He and Sonko were dominant in the air and for the first time the duo had absolute command of our penalty area. Except for Sonko’s one moment of madness that allowed Eto’o to ghost into position for their goal, the two were antiseptic.

It was the first tangible sign of a solid understanding between the two, which was even more pleasing to watch on video so I could see it from the grandstand point of view.

Now, though, they have to deal with our nemesis Rolando Bianchi, which doesn’t sound quite as bad as facing Eto’o. However, Bianchi has had more success against us.

The video completed, the players had a light lunch before I took them onto the training ground in the afternoon to keep their legs loose.

Their confidence is inspiring. They have bought into the system and they believe in each other. Even Bikey, who has comprehensively lost his place in the center of defense to Huth but is willing to work to play in the holding position, is in good spirits.

The string we have had is evidence of that.

# # #

[ScottT!]

Most clubs would struggle to match such a high-quality, high-intensity performance against a team like Manchester City just a few days later. I am, therefore, fully expecting you to pull of a resounding win, true to Rob Ridgway's remarkable management form

Keep up the continued brilliance ttl

[tenthreeleader]

Scott, thank you for the kind words! As for expectations, take a seat alongside Mr. Richmond in the directors' box. You two have something in common!

___

“So, what does this report say?”

“I’m working on that,” McGuire said.

Richmond paced back and forth in his office, his long, pointed nose angled toward the carpet. If the look in his eyes could have been focused through his pince-nez, he might have created a laser beam that would have turned the room to a smoking pile of ash.

He was upset.

“I was not expecting the sort of grilling we got from Commander Fowler,” he snapped. “The nerve of that man, to think we would leave room for doubt regarding the takeover bid. And we haven’t even issued it yet!”

“Perhaps your pronouncements on the subject aroused his suspiscion,” McGuire countered.

“What pronouncements?” Richmond looked annoyed, perhaps even more annoyed than usual.

“Well, there’s the letter you wrote Ridgway,” McGuire said.

“That had nothing to do with the takeover bid,” Richmond snapped.

“It had everything to do with communicating your intentions as hostile,” McGuire said. “I warned you, as the public relations expert, not to do that.”

“Your warnings mean little to me,” Richmond said, as if he were trying to make himself believe his own words. “You worry about doing what you are told and I’ll worry about handling Ridgway.”

McGuire stuck to his guns. “He didn’t need to be handled in that way.”

“I decided otherwise,” Richmond snarled. “Now, are you going to listen to me this time?”

“I know what I know,” McGuire said. “What I know is public relations. It does not matter if Ridgway leaked the letter…”

“What makes you think he did? I gave him express instructions not to.”

“…if you’ll let me finish, Sidney,” McGuire said, with an oddly calm expression. “It doesn’t matter if Ridgway leaked the letter or if Sir John did. The point is that the contents showed an intention on your part to purchase the club without possibility of failure. Given all that has happened around this club in recent months, do you not think that might arouse some suspiscion in Commander Fowler’s mind?”

“Like that was any of Fowler’s business,” Richmond said. His head was beginning to hurt.

“Cops…talk to each other,” McGuire said, with a tired expression. “He’s not like Sherlock Holmes who figured everything out by himself.”

“He most certainly is not,” Richmond sneered. “At least Holmes had the good sense to smoke opium. Whatever that man was smoking when he met us smelled like the lint in my pants pocket.”

“Do you really judge a man by his smoke?” McGuire asked incredulously.

“It’s one way,” Richmond said. “When I meet a man, I want to know what makes him tick. Does he like the finer things, does he have a sense of refinement about him. You did when I met you, so you became part of my team.”

“So where does Hardcastle fit into that?” McGuire asked, his curiosity now piqued.

“Steven has no sense of refinement, so he was perfect for the job I had in mind for him,” Richmond said.

McGuire’s face suddenly assumed the expression of a man trying to give himself diarrhea.

“No, it was not that job,” Richmond added. “I have told you as many times as I am going to tell you that I had nothing to do with your beating, and neither did Steven. I won’t tolerate that sort of trouble among members of my team.”

McGuire thought it through. He didn’t believe Richmond.

It wasn’t the first time.

# # #

[Jamcee]

I'm going away for the week on Sunday and I am looking forward to coming home and being able to read a weeks worth of this wonderful tale. KUTGW 10-3.

[spartans5]

Will we find out who did organize the beating on Mr. McGuire?

KUTGW 10-3

[tenthreeleader]

Thanks for the comments, fellows ... McGuire is indeed thinking hard about who would do such a mean thing to such a nice guy ... and Jamcee, I hope you enjoy your time away. I plan to have Rat Pack going upon your return

___

“Rob, what would you like to discuss?”

Weatherby sat across from me, the large desk in the stadium’s manager’s office separating me from the Evening Post’s beat writer.

“I want to clear the air about the articles that have been written about me and my wife,” I said. “Can you help with that?”

“I can try, but the final decision is not up to me,” she said.

Weatherby knew, though, that I would give her exclusive reaction to the stories printed by her competition, so we both knew the ‘final decision’ would wind up getting printed.

“I want everyone to know that Patty and I are together and we intend to stay that way,” I said, and she started writing as I spoke.

I watched her scribbling onto a pad, even as she placed a recorder on top of my desk. Very thorough, our Jill.

Her face assumed a mask of concentration, her blonde bangs falling in little wisps across her forehead.

“Why all the stories, Rob?” she asked.

“I think someone is trying to destabilize me and destabilize the club,” I said, knowing what I was saying would make news. “We have had discussions in the past about people inside the club who want it to fail, and now that we are on the cusp of big things in terms of the long-term development of the club, those people are getting increasingly desperate.”

“Would you care to discuss who those people might be? Are you ready to name names?”

“No, I can’t do that right now,” I said. “I can tell you, though, that it won’t work. Even if something were to happen in my private life, it couldn’t detract from my own work here. It has been said many times before, but no one is bigger than the club. No one can be bigger than the club, and if I have anything to say about it, no one will be bigger than the club.”

“So you are telling me that the stories are without foundation?”

“That is what I am telling you,” I replied. “Look, we’re expecting our first child after the new year. This is supposed to be a happy time in our lives and people are trying not only to ruin that, but also to drive a wedge inside my family. And for what? Because they don’t like the club I manage? They might not like me personally? Or because I have something another person wants? What useful purpose could all this possibly serve?”

She kept writing, so I kept talking.

“It’s sad and it’s a bit pathetic, to be frank,” I said. “We have enough to worry about, like helping the police figure out what the hell happened in Bordeaux the other night – and that’s a lot more important. I have a family to protect and I am going to do it starting right now.”

“A declaration of war?”

“Not so dramatic, if you please,” I said. “I will say that I’m going to use every legal means I have at my disposal to keep my private life private. If people want to run that gauntlet, they are certainly welcome to try. I can’t stop people writing what they want to write, but I can certainly control access – and from this point forward, that is exactly what I will do.”

“Of course, if your wife falls out of international fame or you move back to the United States, a lot of this scrutiny will cease,” she pointed out.

“True,” I agreed. “And some of that, I frankly wouldn’t mind. I am not leaving here, my job is not finished and I’m not going anywhere until Sir John tells me to clear out my desk. But I shouldn’t have to put up with the crap I’ve been reading.”

“Has it ever occurred to you to simply stop reading?” she asked. “Meaning no disrespect, Rob.”

“It has, Jill,” I admitted. “But the questions still get asked, so it’s useful to at least know what people are saying. That is the frustrating thing about all this. You are definitely a target over here, and I know I am not the first person to say this. But there comes a point where it just needs to stop. I feel that point is right now.”

# # #