"The Gaffer John P" (FM 15)

[Greyfriars Bobby]

After I couldn't shake a case of writer's malaise that lasted for months, I finally listened to some wise advice from my 11-year-old daughter, an aspiring writer who will be much, much better than I ever was.  I simply didn't try to write anything for a while.  Now, I'm back, with an idea I hope we'll all have fun with.  I'll do my best to keep this one going.

FM 15, England to Level 10 database, fictional names.  

 

March 1993

Bury U13 v. Carlisle U13

Johnny Pearson was on the verge of losing his temper.  For the last sixty minutes, the curly-haired Bury forward had been annoying him.  First he called Johnny names, and when that failed to get the desired result, he took things to the next level.  Six inches shorter and not nearly as solid, the pest dug an elbow into Johnny's ribs as they battled for position on a corner kick.  After the Carlisle goalkeeper saved his shot and held on, he stepped on Johnny's foot as they turned to jog back up the pitch.  

Johnny was a center back, and a good one.  Tall and strong, he wasn't used to opponents getting excessively rough with him.  He felt his temper rising, and that upset him even more. 

Five minutes later, Bury went on the attack.  Johnny retreated into position, watching the play as Curly Hair dribbled the ball forward.  He spread the ball to a teammate on the right wing and continued his run into the area, where Johnny moved up to mark him.  Curly Hair's teammate tried to put his return pass where Johnny couldn't get to it, but he mishit it slightly, and Johnny saw his opportunity.  As Johnny went for the ball, Curly Hair stuck out his foot, and his studs connected with the side of Johnny's ankle.  The whistle blew as the two boys tumbled to the turf.  

Johnny leaped to his feet, his face red and angry.  Curly Hair lay on the ground for a moment longer.  When he finally stood up, Johnny hit him with a sharp, two-handed shove.  The smaller boy tumbled back to the floor.  Johnny stood over him menacingly as the officials moved in, whistles blowing, 

The referee pulled out a red card.    Johnny's eyes stung with tears as he walked off the pitch.  

Robbie Evans pushed his dark brown curls back from his eyes and smirked.  That was too easy, he thought.  

 

 

 

[EvilDave]

Great to see you back on FMS - your daughter has done us all a favour. An intriguing start here, I'll be following along for sure.

[neilhoskins77]

8 hours ago, EvilDave said:

Great to see you back on FMS - your daughter has done us all a favour. An intriguing start here, I'll be following along for sure.

I'll second that. Always enjoy your stories Bobby, so I look forward to seeing what you have in store for us.

[Greyfriars Bobby]

13 hours ago, EvilDave said:

Great to see you back on FMS - your daughter has done us all a favour. An intriguing start here, I'll be following along for sure.

 

4 hours ago, neilhoskins77 said:

I'll second that. Always enjoy your stories Bobby, so I look forward to seeing what you have in store for us.

Thank you, gents.  It's good to be back, too.  

 

November 2002

Carlisle UTD v. Bury 

His left ankle seemed to scream at him every time he took a step, but there was no way John Pearson was going to miss today's match.  Only a few of his teammates, the ones who, like him, had been at Carlisle since their schoolboy days, remembered why he wanted so badly to beat Bury.  The reason was simple:  the cocky lad with the shaggy dark curls wearing the number nine shirt.  

Robbie Evans had already scored once.  Bury were awarded a penalty, and Evans took it and scored.  John hadn't been anywhere near the play when the foul occurred, but that didn't make him feel any better about the situation.  Watching Robbie Evans celebrating a goal never felt good.

In the nine years since the run-in that saw John sent off, the two of them had clashed several more times.  Robbie had a big mouth, and he boasted openly about the talent he had for pushing John's buttons.  The fact that John was a good player only made his ability to provoke him that much more satisfying.  

Honestly, Robbie didn't need to run his mouth.  He was a very good player himself, a pacey striker with a nose for goal who was one of the Third Division's leading scorers.  He could have let his game do the talking for him, and that's what bothered John the most.  

About mid-way through the second half, Carlisle won a corner.   John was known to be a dangerous man on set pieces.  Somehow Bury left him unmarked, and he rose up and drilled a powerful header past the 'keeper's outstretched glove, drawing the Cumbrians level.  Shouting with joy, John wheeled around to celebrate his goal with the supporters in the Warwick Road End.  Did he deliberately cross paths with Robbie Evans, grinning and nodding his head?  Only John knew for sure.

Five minutes later, John was limping off the pitch.  He'd probably tweaked his ankle when he leaped to head home that corner kick, and the adrenaline rush he got when he scored kept the pain manageable for a short time.  When his manager saw how badly John was laboring, he knew he had to take him off.  

That's why John was seated on the bench, a hood pulled over his head, when Robbie Evans lashed the ball into the upper left corner.   It was left for the Carlisle supporters to wonder if Evans would have scored with John helping patrol the back line.  

Bury got the three points, which made the match a rather typical one for the Cumbrians that season.  They escaped relegation by a single point.  Meanwhile, Robbie Evans and his Bury teammates slipped into the promotion playoff.  

The painfully torn ligaments in John's ankle kept him out of action for the remainder of the season.  

 

[Greyfriars Bobby]

July 2011

The Kings Head, Carlisle 

"You don't think you're going to miss playing?" Conor Dolan was John's best friend, and he'd never shied away from asking him tough questions.

John waited a moment before he answered, and took a long sip from his pint.  "Of course I will," he said.  "There's nothing quite like the feeling you get when you walk out onto the pitch."

"That's better than hearing the crowd singing your name?"  Conor had never played at a higher level than the Sunday leagues, so he'd never experienced any of those thrills.

"Much better.  The supporters can turn on you if you don't play well, or if you sign with a rival club.  Nobody can take the moments before the match away from you.  They're personal, they're yours."

Conor shook his head.  "You never signed with a rival, John.  You were Carlisle to the core."

"That's making this decision a lot harder, to be honest."  John had spent twenty years in the club, from youth level on up.  He'd made 304 appearances with the senior team over the better part of nine seasons.  The ankle he'd ripped up back in '02 didn't cost him as much as it would a quicker player.  "You can't lose your pace if you never had any," he liked to say.  

"What are you going to do now?" Conor asked him.  

Another pause.  "I've put in to be a supply teacher.  I might ask around to see if any of the clubs around here need a volunteer coach.  Otherwise, I'm not sure."  It had taken a while, but John had finished his degree in history.  There were several teachers in his family, so the career had always appealed to him.  He could envision himself teaching history, coaching football, becoming a part of the life of the school.

"You ought to get your coaching badges," Conor suggested.  "You like studying, learning new things...a lot more than I ever did."  Conor grinned mischievously.  He'd never let his schoolwork get in the way of a good time.

John took another sip.  "I have been thinking about that, actually."  John didn't have anything, or anyone, tying him down.  He was willing to move for the right job, or jobs; he knew he would never earn enough coaching football to eliminate the need for a second job.

"If you don't do it now, you never will, and you know it."

"You're right."  

That evening, John registered for his first coaching course.  As soon as he closed his laptop, a feeling of contentment came over him.  He'd taken the first step down a path that somehow felt right.

[Greyfriars Bobby]

May 2014

John Pearson smiled as he scrawled his signature on the contract that lay on the table in front of him.  

"You've done this before," said the affable gentleman sitting beside him.  His name was Peter Greene, and he was the head of St Dunstan's School.  

"A time or two," John replied.  The two men stood and shook hands.  

"It's good to have you, John."  Peter smiled warmly.  

"Thank you, and it's good to be here."  

With that, John became the Associate Director of Admission at St Dunstan's.  It was the first real job he'd ever had that didn't involve kicking a football.

St Dunstan's was near the town of Woodstock, in Oxfordshire.  It wasn't one of the best schools in England, but it was far from the worst.  It wasn't terribly large, or terribly small.  It wasn't the oldest, nor was it the newest.  It was, in most respects, a rather unremarkable school.  Headmaster Greene wanted to invigorate the school, bringing in energetic teachers and staff who could liven the mood around the grounds.  One or two of the board members had feared that hiring a former footballer would send the wrong message concerning the relative importance of athletics and academics at St Dunstan's, but John was able to put their minds at rest.  He was intelligent and poised enough to convince them they weren't hiring a caveman.

John's responsibilities included serving as an Assistant Housemaster for Livesay House, so the task of finding lodging in his new home was taken care of for him.  That made his salary go that much farther.  He didn't have to commute to work, which meant his car could remain parked most of the time.  And it looked like he'd have an opportunity to coach one of the school's football teams, too.

He didn't need the Continental C badge he'd earned to manage the St Dunstan's Fifth Form team, but he had enjoyed the courses, and he had received very positive feedback on his performance.  "You'll make a fine manager one day," one of the administrators told him.

For now, the only managing John was doing came in the evenings, when he opened up his laptop and immersed himself for a while in his Football Manager save.  That, however, was about to change.
 

[Greyfriars Bobby]

1 July 2014

Michael Parsons was insistent.  "We're talking about two days a week.  One weekday evening, and Saturday." 

Parsons was the director of Old Woodstock Town FC.  They were an amateur club, whose New Road grounds were within walking distance from St Dunstan's.  Parsons was looking for a manager for his club, and the thought of a bona fide professional, working at the school up the road, seemed like quite a piece of serendipity.  

John nodded.  He already knew what the schedule would be like.  Parsons had mentioned it the first time they spoke, which was a week ago now.  That conversation had intrigued John enough that he discussed it with Peter Greene, and the headmaster assured him things could be worked out.  

"What's making you hesitate, John?" 

"I've spent nearly my whole life in this world, Mr Parsons.  I still love football, but at the same time, I need to find out if there's anything else I can do, and do well.  I don't want to jeopardize my position at St Dunstan's because I'm too wrapped up in football.  And it wouldn't be fair to you or your club for me to take the job and not give it the time and energy it deserves."

Parsons thought for a moment.   "I'm willing to take that chance, if you are.  We'd like to have you here.  I think you'd help attract good players to our club, and help them get even better.  What would you say to giving it a go?  If it doesn't work out, then it doesn't work out.  There's no money changing hands here, so the parting wouldn't have to be difficult."

Now it was John's turn to pause, and think.  "All right, Mr Parsons," he finally said, with a smile.  "I'm in."

The two men shook hands, and just like that, John Pearson was the manager of Old Woodstock Town FC.

 

[Greyfriars Bobby]

8 August 2014

July turned to August, and slowly, John's life began to take on more structure.  He had moved into his lodgings in Livesay House, a small suite with a sitting area and a sleeping nook.  The boys hadn't arrived yet, so it was quiet there.  Once the term began, John would take his meals in the house's dining hall, but for now, he and the other members of the staff who were already on the grounds were eating at one of the other houses.  John was enjoying getting to know a few of his colleagues.

The Admission Office was a busier place.  There were families making late decisions about schools, and John was already pitching in to help them understand the advantages of a St Dunstan's education.  At first he shadowed his supervisor, MatthewHart.  Matthew was the Director of Admission, a congenial gentleman in his early forties who looked like he was straight from Central Casting.  He wore his St Dunstan's blazer stylishly, and his smile was ready and warm.  He knew his business, too, and he was happy to share his insights with John.  Matthew's thirteen-year-old son, Mick, was a pacey forward in Oxford United's youth system.  

Within a week, John had learned enough that Matthew let him lead a family on a campus tour, while he stood back and listened.   John passed that test with flying colors--the family enrolled their son in Year Seven--and John was now leading tours by himself.

Things were going well at Old Woodstock Town, too.  John got on well with his assistant, Aaron Hudson.  Aaron was in his mid-fifties, and had been around the club for most of his life, first as a player, and then as a coach.  He'd filled in as a caretaker manager when the club couldn't find a man for the job, but Aaron had no desire to be the boss himself.  John immediately noticed Aaron had a real talent for teaching the attacking phase of the game, and he seemed able to motivate players to work hard in training.

John was pleasantly surprised at the quality of the players at his disposal.  As Aaron pointed out, "These are real footballers, playing for a real club.  They don't make it their life's work, but they take pride in a job well done.  Some of them would be picking up a pay envelope somewhere, if they could make it work out.  Unless--or until--they do, they'll turn out for us."

Goalkeeper Ryan Ellis was the tallest footballer John had ever seen.  The teenager stood 6 feet 9 inches, and he hadn’t turned seventeen.  Still, he was surprisingly agile, with decent reflexes, and he didn’t look completely awkward distributing the ball to his defenders.  The other ‘keeper would be Mark McDermid, a friend of John’s with whom he’d played youth football twenty years ago.  Mark was an electrician by trade who had never completely hung up his gloves.  A phone call from John was all it took to convince Mark to pull on a Woodstock shirt.  He wouldn’t mind serving as Ellis’s backup, and his professionalism would be a welcome addition to the side.

John was pleased to find a center back as well-rounded as Paul Stubbs in a club this small.  He was suitably big and strong, aggressive and brave, and he was comfortable on the ball, too.  Matthew James would probably be Paul’s partner most of the time.  James was a little better in the air and a bit more conservative in possession, but both of them had a bit of pace. 

Bobby Hayward looked like the best bet at right back.  He wasn’t fast, but otherwise he ticked all the boxes.  The best left back was young Allan Lampard, but John probably wouldn’t play him there.  He might use Mark Evans, a solid, no-nonsense fullback, and play Lampard in the midfield.  Evans’s expertise on corners and free kicks gave John another reason to select him. 

Jake Anderson could fill in all along the back line.  He seemed like a very ordinary player until he took a throw-in, a skill which he had raised to an art form.

Like Paul Stubbs, central midfielder Daniel Ross looked like an exceptionally good footballer for the Hellenic League.  Semi-pro clubs were already on his trail, but for now, Ross would be the heartbeat of the side and the captain of the club.  His likely partner, David Leonard, was an eager, hard-working player who did the unglamorous tasks that flashier players might not care to do.  John might have liked to have a more dynamic playmaker to pair with Ross, but for now, Leonard would do. 

Neither of the wingers, Lampard on the left and Ross Harding on the right, had the electric pace an ideal wide man would have, but Harding was a shifty dribbler and Lampard would run up and down his wing all day long. 

John had four forwards in the team, all of whom could see significant amounts of action.  Liam Cherry, who had just moved to the area from Irchester, was fast and athletic, and he could also do a job on the wing.  Sean Fletcher was big and strong, a deadly finisher with a silky first touch.    Lee King was quick and scrappy.  Rob Millar offered lots of pace and flair.  All but King could serve as a target man, able to hold up the ball and play in his partner. 

This was the team John would lead into the first match of the Hellenic League Division One East season, away to Penn & Tylers Green.  They had experienced fairly favorable results in their preseason friendlies, winning one and drawing three.   The one journalist who sometimes covered the team, a friendly fellow called Ronald Camp, predicted a mid-table finish for the club, and that was what Michael Parsons had charged him with, too.

Now it was time to see if John and his club had what it took to achieve that goal.

[Chasing Lamely]

Good stuff so far, looking forward to this one getting going in earnest.