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[Tikka Mezzala]

Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can't be sure. I received the news via a short telephone call with the hospital in Algiers. I was asked to collect her personal belongings and make arrangements for the funeral. I would have to take the time off work. 

I was given three days of personal leave. I went to the hospital and sorted everything out. A lawyer waited outside of the main entrance of the hospital with a large envelope in his hands. He wanted to speak to me. "This is a receipt of everything your mother has left to you." He handed me the envelope and walked away, drawing deeply from his cigarette. I signalled for a taxi and sat in the back seat. I hesitated about opening the envelope in the car. I should wait until I am back in the apartment.

I returned home and sat the envelope on the kitchen table. It was getting dark and I could feel tiredness come over me. I used the last of the coffee I had and lit a cigarette. The envelope was addressed to an apartment building two blocks from here. Luckily the lawyer caught me on the way out of the hospital. I opened it with a small knife. Several pieces of fine parchment were stacked inside. I lifted them out of the envelope and a small photograph slipped out from between the parchment. I picked it up to examine it. It was a picture of me when I was a goalkeeper for my university team. I stood, arms crossed, beneath the crossbar with the rest of my team-mates who filled the space between the goalposts. It was a reminder of my life before I had assumed the responsibilities of adulthood. I sat the picture down and picked up the pieces of parchment. It was a list of items that my mother had left me in her will. A few family heirlooms and a large sum of money. Overleaf there was a handwritten note:

My Dearest Albert,

I am sorry that time has come between us. I know that I was a difficult person to love. 

I have always wanted the best for you, my only child. I couldn't give you the childhood you deserved. It pains me to know that you are forced to work in that office. No one should be condemned to carry out such Sisyphean tasks. I hope that this sum of money will help you to pursue a better life. Perhaps you could even return to coaching a football team. I remember how you used to help out with the local league. 

I'm sorry that I can't express everything I would like to say to you. I have never been very good with words. Just know that I love you...

The note seemed unfinished. As if it was written in a rush. I sat the parchment down and re-examined the photograph. I had loved playing for that team. I have always believed that all I know about morality, I learned from football. 

I walked over to the balcony and watched the people below me in the streets. The shopkeeper across from my apartment building was sweeping his front steps. With every swing of his brush I found myself moving back and forth in my mind: was I happy here in Algiers, with my office job, my one room apartment and my lack of a social life? Or did I need to give myself one last chance of living the life that I wanted to live? 

The next day I made some calls. A year or so ago, I helped out with a community project aimed at helping young kids get involved with their local football clubs. The event gained some traction in the local press and the Algerian Football Association decided to sponsor it. They even sent one of the coaches from the national team set-up: a Swiss man called Pierre-Andre Schurmann. We got on well and he told me to get in touch with him if ever I found a talented player in the neighbourhood. I decided to give him a call and ask him about moving into coaching. He was delighted to hear that I was interested in pursuing a career in football, but sorry to hear about the circumstances in which I had contacted him. "Silver linings" I remarked. He seemed surprised at my lack of moroseness. 

Pierre gave me the number of the Algerian FA's football education body, but I told him that I was looking to leave Africa and train in Europe. "I have a French passport" I informed him. Upon hearing that money was not an issue at present, he gave me the name and number of someone from the Swiss FA and told me to drop his name into the conversation when I called them. I thanked him and immediately made the call to Switzerland. They told me that the program I was suitable for would begin in March next year. I reserved my place. I would see to mother's funeral preparations and then I would prepare myself for a new life in Europe: a life in football. 

 

 

 

 

 

[Tikka Mezzala]

Writer's Comments:

For those unfamiliar with Albert Camus, he was an Algerian-French writer from the early-mid 20th Century. Famous for his novels and essays, he explored themes such as absurdity, rebellion and non-belonging. He also used to be a goalkeeper for a brief period with one of Algiers' university teams. This connection with the sport that we love inspired me to re-imagine Camus' life.

I hope to create an interesting story as well as explore the world of football manager through this unusual lens. 

I have loaded the following countries:

Germany

Austria

Switzerland

Belgium

France

Holland

Gibraltar

Spain

Algeria

Tunisia

Morocco

Egypt

Thanks to some of the downloadable content on the forum, I have been able to load many of the regional leagues in the European countries. The next part of the story will bring us up to the present: Albert will have achieved a number of his coaching badges and will hopefully be given the chance to become a football manager. Whether he gets to remain in Europe or has to return to North Africa is unclear. 

“The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.”

 

[tenthreeleader]

You have my undivided attention. Please proceed.

[efcfan]

Very interested in this save. I am interested to see where you manage, and wish you best of luck.

[Tikka Mezzala]

6 hours ago, tenthreeleader said:

You have my undivided attention. Please proceed.

 

4 hours ago, efcfan said:

Very interested in this save. I am interested to see where you manage, and wish you best of luck.

Thanks, guys. 

I will have a second instalment of the story very shortly.

[EvilDave]

Allow me to echo the previous comments - this is a most intriguing start. Your username too gives me hope - I eagerly await Albert's romantic manipulations and subsequent mountaintop duel...

[Tikka Mezzala]

My time in Switzerland had taught me two things: how difficult coaching could be, and how much I missed the cool breeze of the Mediterranean Sea. I completed the early part of my education with relative ease. I had experience in the basics from community coaching in Algiers. The National A-licence was more difficult to attain and it involved me taking up a temporary post with a semi-professional team. The FA helped me find a club to work with. I was posted to Basel to spend twelve months coaching the younger players at FC Black Stars Basel. I lived at a small bed and breakfast a few kilometres from the training base. The FA gave me a small stipend to help me with the necessities. 

I was assessed twice during my time with Black Stars. At the end of the twelve months I was awarded the A-licence. I hoped that I might be given a paid role with Basel, but the club told me they weren't able to bring any more permanent staff into the club due to "financial constraints".

Pierre was delighted with my progress when I called him. He encouraged me to return to Algiers. "Your qualifications will have more weight here". I asked him if he could reach out to any clubs in Switzerland but he insisted that he was unable to do anything for me in Europe. "There are opportunities here for you, Albert. I can speak to Djamel and we can sort you out with some interviews."

Djamel Belmadi was the national team manager. After brief success in Qatar he had been appointed by the Algerian FA to lead the team into the African Cup of Nations Qualifiers. A few days later Pierre called me to say that Djamel had spoken with a number of clubs on my behalf. "There are a couple of teams from Ligue 2 and one from the top league that would like to speak to you. Can you come to Algiers before the weekend?"

I made the arrangements to head back to Algeria. A disappointment itched my mind. Even though I had the chance to work with a team from the Algerian Ligue 1, I had hoped to remain in Europe. Mother's money was running low and Switzerland was expensive to live in. I had little choice but to return home.

Having rented out mother's old apartment, I would have to wait for the tenants lease to end before I could move myself in. I was meeting representatives from three clubs over the course of the weekend. I managed to move all the meetings to the one hotel, and I booked myself a room in it. 

I met Pierre in the hotel bar the night before my first interview. I showed him some of the notes that I had prepared on the clubs and some analysis I had carried out on the tactical set up of other teams in the league. "This is impressive, Albert. But don't forget to assert your own ideas. A manager should have a very clear picture of what they want from their players." I cut Pierre short; I asked him why he said manager and not coach. "Your interviews are for the position of manager. You were expecting this, right?"

Suddenly a feverish sweat poured over my forehead. I felt like an office worker trying to be something way above his station. Perhaps this was all a mistake. Why did I put myself in this position? Was life at the office really so bad? For the first time in my life I yearned for the boring simplicity of my desk and computer at the Algiers Port Authority building. There I had structure. Everything was defined. I carried out tasks that had a purpose. I could not be responsible for the fortunes of an entire football club. I needed guidance; I needed to be managed. 

I told Pierre that I wished to be well rested for my first interview in the morning. He understood. "Let me know how it goes, Albert. Just relax and everything will be fine". 

I returned to the solitude of my room. I poured myself a glass of whisky from the mini bar and took the photograph that my mother had left me from my suitcase. I was the quietest player in the dressing room. I certainly wasn't a candidate for the club captaincy. I was repeatedly scalded by the team manager. "Command your area, Albert. Communicate with the defence!" To manage a group of players I would have to transcend myself. I thought about calling Pierre and explaining that I was not ready for management. After everything that he had done for me, I could not bring myself to do so.

My fears were twofold: I was worried that I would be clearly out of my depth and the club representatives would feel their time was wasted. I also feared winning them over. I tried to get some sleep before my first meeting.

A night of ceiling gazing had come to an end and it was time for the breakfast meeting. The first club that I had arranged to meet with was Jeunesse Sportive Madinet Bejaia. The city of Bejaia was east of Algiers. I would visit it regularly in my youth. The club was in the Algerian second tier. They had designs on promotion to Ligue 1.

I poured over my notes in the hotel lobby. Eventually a well-dressed man was escorted from the main entrance to where I was seated. "Mr Camus, I am Rachid Redjradj. It is a pleasure." We were taken to the dining area where a breakfast trolley awaited. I didn't feel like eating, but to appear confident I asked for my croissant to be lightly toasted. Rachid introduced himself more fully. He told me that Djamel had highly recommended me. We discussed some trivial personal matters before proceeding to our main business. Rachid poured himself a fresh cup of mint tea. "I understand that this would be your first endeavour in football management. There's no need to worry about that. We have looked at your qualifications and it is clear that you have done enough to deserve a chance to kick things off. Do you have any strongly held opinions about how a football club ought to run, Albert?"

As a matter of fact, I did have one or two ideas about how a football club should run. But I kept them to myself. "I think the model you have in place is suitable for a team in Algeria. There is a connection with the city and local communities. The club lives within its means. I would like to think that one or two minor adjustments to the tactical approach would be enough to see the club return to Ligue 1." I despised myself for pandering to him. but Rachid seemed pleased with my answer. "Yes, it is likely that with the right manager we can return to Ligue 1 next season."

We discussed the notes that I had brought along. They contained various training ground practices and information I had gathered about teams from Ligue 2. The notes were sketchy and lacking in finer details, but Rachid seemed suitably impressed. "Good. Good. I agree with your assessments." We brought the meeting to an end and Rachid shook my hand firmly. "You have given a good account of yourself. We'd like to make a decision within the next week before preseason starts. Keep your phone on." 

I stood respectfully until Rachid had left the hotel and then I headed straight to my room to prepare for my afternoon meeting. Amel Saad Olympic Chlef, one of Bejaia's promotion rivals, had agreed to meet me at 4pm. I rehearsed my notes and changed shirts before the interview. 

At 4pm, promptly, Chlef's director of football Rachid Ait-Mohamed arrived in the hotel lobby. I greeted him and confidently escorted him through to the dining area. My anxiety had totally subsided and I had managed to convince myself that I was a well respected member of the Algerian football community. 

I thanked Rachid for coming to Algiers. "It's no problem. I frequently visit on weekends." Rachid Ait-Mohamed was a rough looking man. He wasn't as well dressed as this mornings interviewer. I felt slightly superior to him. He had brought along a small folder and began explaining some of the conditions I would be working under. "We don't have much to offer in the way of transfer money. We also have to reduce our wage bill slightly." Rachid spoke in a slightly apologetic tone, giving me the impression that I would be given the job if I was willing to accept the financial limitations. I assured him that I was understanding of the situation. I showed him my notes, and he nodded without displaying much enthusiasm. "Yes, this all looks fine". 

The meeting lasted about half the time of the previous one. I was relieved to be done for the day. We shook hands in the lobby and I headed straight to the bar. Tomorrow would be my final interview. I called Pierre to tell him that things had went well. "I knew they would, Albert. Now for the big one tomorrow. Djamel had to pull a lot of strings to get you on the shortlist for Moloudia." My heart skipped a beat as the word 'Moloudia' reached my ear. The list of teams I was given did not contain Moloudia Club D'Alger. "It says here that I am meeting with Paradou Athletic Club tomorrow, Pierre." He told me that he must have gotten the teams mixed up. I found his excuse hard to believe, MC Alger were one of the biggest clubs in Algeria. There was surely no way they were going to consider me for the manager's job. "No, it is definitely MC Alger, Albert. I don't know how I managed to mix them up". Pierre wished me luck and excused himself from the phone call. I sat staring into my drink. I wanted to wring Pierre's neck. My confidence had totally evaporated. I could feel it leave me like the steam from Rachid's mint tea. Tomorrow I would be found out. An impostor. A representative from one of Algeria's biggest clubs would arrive to find an office worker from the Port Authority building trying to fool them into thinking he was a respected football manager. 

 

[Tikka Mezzala]

1 hour ago, EvilDave said:

Allow me to echo the previous comments - this is a most intriguing start. Your username too gives me hope - I eagerly await Albert's romantic manipulations and subsequent mountaintop duel...

Nice one on recognising the name

I'm enjoying writing it with Albert as the lead character. I have a few ideas for antagonists and 'duels' so to speak. But the game must throw up some scenarios first. At the moment I have attended the three interviews mentioned in the second instalment. 

 

Thanks for reading.

[Tikka Mezzala]

5 hours ago, EvilDave said:

Allow me to echo the previous comments - this is a most intriguing start. Your username too gives me hope - I eagerly await Albert's romantic manipulations and subsequent mountaintop duel...

Let me just add, I read your story about arranging the game between the two lowest ranked teams in the world. Wow! Amazing work. I was gripped by it. Definitely a standard I'd love to emulate in my own attempts. 

[Tikka Mezzala]

I must have fallen asleep at some point, because a violent knock on the door brought me tumbling back into my surroundings. Daylight penetrated the beige curtains. I checked the time as I laboured over to the door: 8.45am. The meeting wasn't for another couple of hours. I readjusted my bathrobe and opened the door. An employee of the hotel had come to inform me that I had guests awaiting me in the dining area. "I will tell them you will be with them shortly". 

Had Pierre got the times mixed up as well? That damn Swiss fool! I was beginning to think that this was all an elaborate joke. Had my former colleagues at the port authority tricked me into believing I had a chance of managing MC Alger? Those bastards! 

I hastened to dress and comb my hair. Feeling badly put together, I grabbed my notes and headed down the stairs. "Swiss bastard" I muttered underneath my breath. At the bottom of the stairwell the hotel manager waited to show me to my esteemed guests. The dining area was completely empty apart from one table in the far right-hand corner of the room. I immediately recognised Djamel Belmadi. Boujemaa Boumella, the President of MC Alger, was seated next to him. They both stood up to greet me. "This is him, Boujemaa. Mr Albert Camus; Algeria's next big thing." It was strange hearing Djamel refer to me in such glowing terms. I had never been introduced to him. I assumed that it was all part of the act, so I played along. "Hello Djamel, I hope you're well. Mr Boumella, it is a pleasure to meet you. Please, there's no need to stand." We sat down together and a breakfast trolley was brought out from the kitchen area. 

I felt surprisingly calm, if a little agitated at having been rudely awoken. "I'm afraid I was given an incorrect time for the meeting, gentlemen. I hope you haven't been waiting long." Djamel explained that I had in fact been given the correct time, but they had other business to attend to, so they moved the meeting up their schedule. "I hope this hasn't inconvenienced you, Albert?" I assured them that it was no trouble at all, and we proceeded to enjoy our breakfast. 

Djamel had just finished telling a story about his time with Olympique Marseille, before moving the attention on to me. "You were born in Algiers, Albert. Is that right?" I informed him that I was born in Drean and moved to Algiers to attend school. "Ah, yes. You attended university in the city. What was it you studied again?" "Philosophy" I replied. "Did you hear that, Boujemaa? We have a football-philosopher in our midst." 

Boujemaa Boumella was an old-fashioned businessman. He did not suffer fools gladly, and his facial expression suggested that I was a fool. Djamel, upon realising that his light-hearted conversation was failing to keep Boujemaa's attention, moved the meeting forward. "Now that I have made introductions, I will allow you both to discuss business." Djamel then stepped away from the table and headed outside to the hotel lobby. There was a moment of stony silence. I hesitated about speaking first. Boujemaa finally broke the tension: "this is a waste of time. I am here because I owe Djamel a favour. We already have a preferred candidate for the job. No offence, Albert, but you didn't honestly think an office worker could spend a few years in Switzerland and walk straight into MC Alger, did you? Look, you have a lot to learn about this business. But I will do you a turn. I know you have met with two other clubs this weekend. I have a bit of influence with the presidents of both clubs. Let me know which job you would prefer and I will see to it that you are made whole." I was angry that I had been misled into believing I had a genuine chance of landing the Alger job. But Boujemaa was right; I did have a lot to learn about this business. I had learned a valuable lesson today: it's not what you know, it's who you know. My coaching education didn't even come up during the meeting. I was given the opportunity to speak with MC Alger because I knew Pierre, and he knew Djamel and so on.

I thought things over in my mind. I decided that Bejaia would be fitting, given that I spent time there in my youth. I was also unimpressed by the representative from Chlef. "You have my word, Albert" Boujemaa assured me before leaving. 

I spent the rest of the day down by the waterfront. Sundays are family day at the Algerian seaside. Having lost the only living member of my immediate family, I felt alone. I was on the verge of becoming a football manager. Yet I could not shake the feeling of being a fraud. Amongst the people that I had spent the last twenty-eight years of my life beside, I felt like an outsider. Everyone else fitted seamlessly into the postcard setting of the Algiers waterfront; I stood alone in the shadows, condemned to roll the boulder of self pity to the hilltop, wiping my brow and cursing my place in this wicked land of desert and sea.

As the sun set over Algiers, casting shadows farther and wider across the city streets, I could feel the lights go out on my former life. All that I had been up to this point was of no use to me now. I would be in the spotlight, thrust from my natural place in the margins. Expectations would be placed on my shoulders. Other men would look to me for answers. I would wrack my brains and come up short. Judgement will rain down from all angles: the media, the fans, the board of directors, the players. I would be judged harshly and cast out of Eden, back to the wicked humanity of nine-to-five. 

In football, as in life, it is pointless to wait for the final judgement at the end of a long career - it takes place everyday. 

[simon07]

Absolutely fantastic so far, always fancied doing a career in the northern African countries so I'll read on with intrigue!

[Tikka Mezzala]

9 hours ago, simon07 said:

Absolutely fantastic so far, always fancied doing a career in the northern African countries so I'll read on with intrigue!

Thanks, mate.

It's my first time managing in this part of the world. Needless to say, there needs to be a lot of work done to bring Algeria up to speed with the standards we're used to in Western Europe. Most of the successful international players seem to be coming through the youth teams of French clubs, rather than Algerian teams. 

[Tikka Mezzala]

I took the bus along the coastal road to Bejaia. All of my possessions were crammed into an old brown suitcase that looked as though it could burst open at any moment. The porter at the bus station in Algiers had given me a look of concern as he loaded it onto the baggage compartment. The drive to the city itself was splendid: the sea shimmered in the summer sunlight, as it calmly rolled to and fro from the rocky shore. The spotless blue sky juxtaposed my clouded imagination. I was busy trying to learn everything I could about JSM Bejaia before the preseason preparations got underway. Upon agreeing in principle to take up the position of manager, I was emailed a report of the first team squad that had been compiled by the small backroom team at the club. It was grim reading. 

I arrived in Bejaia early afternoon. The bus station was full of porters desperately loading various cargo onto old, rusting buses. My suitcase was dragged from the baggage compartment and landed at my feet with a loud thud. I was immediately mobbed by the local opportunists offering to take my suitcase to the taxi rank. I declined their help and dragged my life's possessions to the nearest payphone. Rachid Redjradj, the club director that interviewed me in Algiers, had asked me to give him a call as soon as I had arrived in the city. "Just settle in today, Albert. First thing tomorrow we will get you over to the training ground and we'll get those papers signed."

Mother's money afforded me the luxury of a waterfront hotel. I walked along the sandy pavements that stood as a frontier between the primitive sands of North Africa and the modern colonial buildings that had been erected by the French. The area had changed somewhat since my childhood visits. There were a couple of painters sitting in front of the beach trying to capture the happy scene. No artist, however, could bring back the scene of my youth; although, it is possible that it is not the city that has changed the most. 

I ducked out of the glaring sun and into the shade of a small cafe. I had brought along the first-team report. I ordered a black coffee and took a seat facing the window. Above the front counter in the cafe was a JSM Bejaia emblem. Today, the cafe owner would serve me; tomorrow, I would serve him and all of the other supporters. I thought about what it would be like coming into a cafe like this one after I had been unveiled to the Bejaia public. I also pondered the possibility of things turning sour. If I failed to bring success to the team, would the cafe owner not be justified in turning away my custom? After all, had he failed to provide adequate service to me, had his coffee been but hot water and a black colouring, I would surely be justified in withholding payment. We both have a public to serve and will live and die by the quality of our service. 

The coffee was of the highest quality. It was made with Ethiopian beans that provided a rich chocolatey undercurrent and the subtlest hint of citrus. I sipped slowly, savouring each mouthful, as I continued reading the report. The youngest player in the first-team was twenty-four years old, soon to turn twenty-five. The average age of the squad was twenty-eight. I compared this with my own notes on Ligue 2. Remarkably, the average age in the league is thirty. This highlighted a serious problem. Clearly, not enough was being done to bring young players into first-team squads. Given my background of working with kids in Algiers, I felt compelled to change the situation. I wanted a younger squad and a clear route to the first team for the young players already at the club. I flicked through the notes but could not see anything about the youth team set-up. I was interested in meeting with those responsible for coaching the u-18 and u-21 teams. I began a to-do list and placed the aforementioned meetings at the very top. 

The next concerning fact appeared on the page titled 'contracts'. Every single first-team player had a one-year contract. I understood that it was quite in keeping with the wheeling and dealing approach most clubs carried out at this level. Long term financial commitments were a luxury a Ligue 2 side could not afford. However, it would not do to risk our prized-assets leaving the club for nothing. This concern would arise every single season with the current approach. I wanted some security. I added the issue to my list as something to be addressed. 

The pay scale of the club was fairly standard. The average wage for a first team player was £500 p/w. I noticed that one of the players, Ramzi Bourakba, was earning more than double the average salary. I took note of this fact and continued to flick through the report. 

A lot of positive things were said about one of the strikers at the club: Moussa Coulibaly, a twenty-five year old Malian. He was a recent arrival at the club, having impressed in his native Mali. The club's head of recruitment insisted that Moussa was the most exciting find in his time at the club. "Moussa is an exceptionally quick player with an eye for goal. We witnessed him playing on television during the African Champions Cup. He should slot straight into the starting-11". I was aware of the club's basic set-up. However, it would not do to sign players on the back of one or two television appearances. I would have to review the recruitment model. 

I sat the report down on the table and stared out of the window at the beach-goers. I thought about an alternative reality; one in which I invested mother's money in a small cafe, like this one. I could spend my days quietly serving coffee and croissants while the everyday men and women come and go, politely smiling and thanking me for my service. Tomorrow, a portion of the city's football enthusiasts would curse my name. JSM's city rivals Moloudia Olympique de Bejaia were in Ligue 1 having been promoted the previous season. Despite JSM being the most popular club in the city, MO Bejaia had enjoyed success more recently. Neither side had ever won the Ligue 1 title. They both had one major honour to their name: the Algerian Cup. Moloudia's cup triumph was as recently as 2015; JSM won it a decade ago in 2008. The rivalry is fierce and sometimes violent. I would quickly have to learn about where I could and could not socialise. I happened to stop into a JSM-friendly cafe today, but it could quite easily have been different. I, an office worker from the port authority in Algiers, someone who did not inspire much feeling either way in other people, would be hated as of tomorrow. If I failed, I would be unable to show my face in this city ever again. 

As I walked back to my hotel I contemplated the age of the players in the team. Many of them were older than I was. I am soon to turn twenty-eight. Inspiring those with more experience of living than me will be one of the major challenges. One of my former colleagues in Algiers used to say to me "at thirty, a man should know himself like the palm of his hand. He should know the exact number of defects and qualities; know how far he can go; foretell his failures - be what he is. And above all, he must accept these things." These words occupied my thoughts for the rest of the evening. 

 

[Tikka Mezzala]

I arrived at the training ground a little before 8am. A security guard had to be awoken by the taxi's horn before raising the barrier to let us into the complex. The car stopped just outside of an old building with the club's emblem painted faintly onto the main wall. A woman came running from the entrance to open the door for me, but I was already half-way out by the time she reached the car. "Mr Camus, please come inside. Can I get you anything, a coffee perhaps?" I accepted her offer out of politeness and followed her into the building. 

The inside of the training centre looked like an airport departure lounge. White tiled floors and uncomfortable looking seats greeted me, and I was asked to sit in one of them. The receptionist, whose name was Sami, brought me a coffee from one of the vending machines in the waiting area. "The club President is on his way, is there anything else I can do for you?" I relieved Sami of her meet and greet duties and decided to get up and examine the vending machines. Next to the hot drinks dispenser, which included various hot chocolate selections, was a machine that exclusively sold products from the Coca Cola company. The last vending machine in the row sold crisps and chocolate bars. I unclipped my briefcase and pulled a sheet of paper from one of the folders. The document contained the physical profiles of the players. Mohamed Larine Aoures, a twenty-eight year old striker weighed 86kg. The average weight of the squad was 73kg. The vending machines had to go. 

The club president Boualem Tiab burst through the front doors about 8:30. "Sami, coffee please, bring it to me in my office." Sami tried to inform Boualem that I had arrived and was waiting by the canteen area examining menus, but the president had disappeared up the stairs to his office before she could get her words out. Hearing the authoritative voice from the reception area I headed back through to find Sami standing by the hot drinks dispenser. "Should I wait here?" I asked her. "Have a seat and I will tell him you're here when I bring him his coffee."

Boualem emerged from his office behind Sami, and came to greet me in the lobby. "Sami, get this man a coffee." I gave Sami a signal to suggest that I did not need another coffee but she paid no mind to it and headed a third time to the drinks dispenser. "We're keen to get down to business today, Albert, so let me just make a call and see where Rachid is. Then we can start." Boualem stepped away momentarily as Sami handed me my third coffee of the morning. The vending machine stuff was watery and unpleasant to drink. The small plastic cups had to held at the brim in order to avoid burning your hand. "Ten minutes, that's great. See you soon, Rachid." Boualem returned and asked me to follow him up the stairs to his office. 

I sat down in one of the chairs facing the desk. The office had a warm feel to it, with dark red wallpaper and Turkish rugs. On the wall to the right hand side, beside a small bookshelf, were framed pictures of Boualem standing beside various club captains, past and present. In the centre of the wall was a picture of Boualem holding the Algerian Cup outside the club's training ground. He caught me looking at the images. "Hopefully I'll get a few more of those before I'm finished here, eh Albert?" I laughed awkwardly. Boualem sat down and started admiring the pictures from behind his desk. "Ten years ago. Pfft. I never thought that I'd have to wait over a decade to see another piece of silverware. That's what you're here for Albert. We stand a very good chance of winning the Ligue 2 title." I shifted in my chair and said the first thing that came to my mind. "Ten years. That's a long time". I immediately regretted my choice of words. I sounded like an incompetent fool. Thankfully Boualem began nodding and muttering to himself "ten years, ten long years". 

The sound of a door opening downstairs signalled Rachid's arrival. We headed to the lobby to greet him. I had expected there to be more people about the place, but apart from Sami, a cleaner and the three of us, there was no one else. I was taken to a room with a large table and a view of the training pitch. I immediately noticed that the pitch had dried up leaving big patches of hard mud in and around both six yard boxes and the centre circle. "It's been a long summer" Boualem remarked. It was only June. 

Rachid and Boualem took a seat at the head of the table. The only other chair was much further down. I tried to move it closer to my colleagues but the wheels had been removed and it felt like something was weighing it down. Rachid removed a folder from his briefcase and handed it to Boualem. "This is your contract, Albert. Obviously we have agreed the terms already, but feel free to look over it before signing". I examined the documents.  The deal was for one season only. I would be earning £875 p/w. "Everything seems to be in order, gentlemen." I signed the contract and we exchanged ceremonial handshakes. It was now official: I was the new manager of JSM Bejaia. 

I was shown around the training complex by both men. Next to the main building was a small extension that looked like a shipping container. "This is the changing area" Rachid told me. Many of the lockers had holes where the locks were supposed to be. The green paint had been chipped off the faces of most of them. There was a smell of ammonia from the toilet area. The showers looked acceptable, but according to Boualem six or seven of them had yet to be repaired. 

We walked from the changing room to the grass pitch in front of it. A wire fence ran around the perimeter of the field. On the near side, where we were standing, various rows of benches allowed a handful of spectators to observe the field of play. I asked about the condition of the surface. "It's been a long summer" Boualem repeated. 

From the grass pitch we headed back into the main building. "Where do the youth team players train?" I asked. Rachid, looking puzzled, replied "the same place as the first-team players. Don't worry, Albert, we run a tight ship here. When the first-team are on the grass, the youth players are in the gym and vice-versa. There's never any scheduling conflicts." I was beginning to question the preconceived ideas that I had about how football clubs are run.

"This is the gym. Feel free to use it yourself whenever you like." Boualem seemed proud of the gym equipment. He walked over to one of the exercise bikes and rested his arm on the handle bar. "State of the art" he said without a hint of irony. Taking off his suit jacket, he mounted the bike and started to peddle. "This feels quite stiff, Rachid. Has it been switched off or something for the summer?" Rachid tried to fix the settings on the bike to loosen it up. I walked around examining the rest of the equipment. It wasn't glamorous, but it would do. 

The rest of the tour consisted of the canteen, the swimming pool and the rest and relaxation area. Despite the basic setting, I could see myself working here. I was unfortunate in that I had been shown some fantastic facilities in Switzerland, and had ultimately expected something of a similar standard here in Bejaia. It was never going to be the case, of course. The final stop was my new office. I had anticipated one of the rooms overlooking the training pitch. Instead I had a cracking view of the car-park. A few years ago I had a small cubicle at the Algiers Port Authority building. I could hardly complain. My office was small, with a desk, a computer and an empty bookcase. I would have to dress it up a little, but I was excited about working here. "That concludes the tour" Boualem said proudly. "Obviously when the staff return from their holidays in a couple of weeks time, you can properly get to work and adjust things to your liking."

The final part of my first day in the job involved meeting the press. The national newspapers had emailed some questions and I had the chance to carefully think about my answers. Boualem had tried to shield me from the questions about my lack of experience, but his incompetence with a computer resulted in me seeing everything. After we had responded to the emails, the local press arrived to meet me face-to-face. I was handed a JSM Bejaia jersey and photographed in front of the barely visible emblem that was peeling off the wall outside the main building. I felt uneasy about having my face put on the back of local newspapers. My anonymity would be gone and I'd have to deal with MO Bejaia fans jibing me in the streets. 

The photography session ended and we moved inside to the canteen area. Sami had rearranged the seats to accommodate the press conference. I noticed the cleaner standing up the back smoking a cigarette, watching disinterestedly. Before taking my seat at the front of the small collection of journalists I headed straight for the cleaner. "Put the cigarette out or go outside" I told him. Rachid and Boualem looked at one another, surprised. The cleaner grudgingly headed outside and I apologised for the small delay. 

I took a seat next to Boualem who whispered in my ear "don't worry, I have a lot of leverage with the press. They won't be your enemy". Boualem had struck me as the sort of man who believes his own hype, but I felt calmer after his words. I was asked around ten questions, and Boualem answered about seven or eight. The focus was very much on our attempts to return to Ligue 1 in order to halt the shame of being below our city neighbours. Boualem considered the fact that MO Bejaia were in the division above a personal insult. He told the press that he had not dined in public since MO were promoted. For the most part, I kept my answers short and sweet. I acknowledged my inexperience and avoided setting targets that could be assessed by the press over the coming months. "The most important stuff will happen here, on the training ground. It will be a daily challenge to improve the players and myself, but that is why we are all here: to be as good as we possibly can be." The journalists in attendance seemed happy enough. Even with vending machine coffee on offer, their spirits were quite good. After the conference had come to an end there was an opportunity for me to speak off-the-record with some of the columnists. A couple of them had told me in no uncertain terms that they were "concerned" by my appointment, being fans of the club and all. Another one asked me if I had went to school with his brother. Only one of the journalists offered me any encouragement. After he had left, Boualem approached to warn me about him. "He is one of them. Dyed in the wool Moloudia fan. Keep your distance." 

Things came to a halt and the journalists headed off. Boualem praised me for handling the press well. He informed me that the staff would be returning to work in a couple of weeks time. Until then I was free to sort things out with my office. I asked to schedule a meeting to discuss the financial situation at the club and to review the roles of the backroom staff. "We will meet next Monday, Albert, and we can discuss anything you like. Try and enjoy the serenity while it lasts. In a couple of weeks, you will be thrown in at the deep end. This is a huge season for us. If we fail to get promoted there will be calls for my head. I will lose all influence I have with the media. There's a lot riding on you, Albert. Don't let us down."

 

 

[simon07]

As before, superb! Keep 'em coming!  

[Tikka Mezzala]

It was the night before my scheduled meeting with Boualem. In the preceding days I had managed to negotiate a reasonable fee with some local painters and decorators to spruce up my office. I also contacted Pierre to ask for some report cards on potential signings. He told me that it wasn't strictly allowed, but that he'd see what he could do. 

I sat at the hotel bar reading a book that I had bought from the university book shop in Algiers: David Hume: A Treatise on Human Nature. I was very interested in Hume's epistemological method, something I'd learned during my days as a philosophy undergraduate at the University of Algiers. Hume believed that all ideas possible to the human mind must derive from sensory experience. We could not imagine anything that did not in some way resemble an object of our experience. He used the example of trying to put the idea of the colour orange inside the mind of a child without showing them something of that colour. Clearly, he concluded, it could not be done. 

I lacked experience in football management. In fact, I had never been given much authority at any point in my life. I was like a piece of litter blowing up and down the street; totally at the mercy of forces beyond my control. One grows accustom to the situation most familiar to them. It was natural for me to bypass my own critical reasoning abilities and look to an authority figure for answers. Even when the answer could easily be deduced from the most unenlightened of minds. 

As I contemplated Hume's principle, I wondered if I had enough life experience to fake my way through my early weeks and months as a manager. Hume spoke of simple ideas and impressions and complex ones. The former were things that could not be further divided, a primary colour for example. Complex ideas and impressions were usually the adding together of various simples: an apple, for example, is the addition of simple features like the colour red, the apple-shape, the taste and so on. Perhaps I could pull together various experiences I had encountered throughout my life and use them in a totally new situation. I have lived in harsh conditions growing up and persevered. I have endured tuberculosis. I've even charmed various women that have been well out of my league. Perhaps I could take all of these simple traits of characters that have helped me tolerate this absurd life, piece them together in some way, and construct a football manager out of them. 

The next day I headed in to the training ground at 8am. The barrier was already raised and the security guard was absent from his post. The taxi pulled up outside the main building behind a police car. I stepped out and noticed that there was graffiti written all across the front of the training centre wall:

"Boualem Out!" 

"Go Back to Your Office Job in Algiers Camus!"

"Greedy Capitalists Are Killing JSMB!"

There were images symbolising death beneath my name and the club president's. Boualem came running out from the main entrance. "Albert, ignore these hooligans. They have been causing us grief for a few seasons now. We have a lot of unemployed in the city and they can't find anything better to do than vandalise the place."

I had managed to fool Boualem, Rachid, some members of the press and some officials in Switzerland; the JSM Bejaia fans could not be so easily persuaded of my metamorphosis. To them, I was no more qualified to be here than any average supporter. Given I was not a fan of the club, hence having no connection to them, I was even lower down the list of people they'd have desired to see in my position. 

Some police officers came out to speak with me. "Mr Camus, we think it is best that you spend the afternoon working from home if possible. We can't be sure these people won't return or wait for you leaving here at the end of the day. We'll take you wherever you need to go." I was furious, of course. A day wasted in my preparations. I would have to reschedule the meeting with Boualem who insisted on spending the rest of the morning reviewing CCTV footage with the incompetent security guard. 

The cleaner watched us from a distance. He was smoking a cigarette and weighing up the scale of the clean-up. I felt guilty about being so abrupt with him the other day. I had felt a need to exert my authority and he was the only person that seemed to be an easy target. I told the police officers that I would be ready to leave in one moment and headed over to offer an apology to the janitor. "I'm sorry that I was a little rash with you the other day. The stress of meeting the press and everything must have got to me. Obviously it is forbidden to smoke indoors, but I shouldn't have spoken to you like that." He took a deep draw of his cigarette and narrowed his eyes to look at me. "Those players are going to eat you alive". He stamped out his cigarette and headed towards the main entrance. I followed slowly behind and left with the policemen. 

I finished writing out a few drills I wanted to try during preseason. If I wanted to know how far this team could go in its current state, I would have to observe them in training and in games. Only empirical data would show me the problems and hence the solutions. In seven days the players would turn up for the first training session of the 2018/19 season. I had set up a meeting with the staff a couple of days beforehand. I had an experimental method in mind for evaluating players over the course of preseason. I would ask the staff to judge the attributes of the players and mark them out of twenty. I had a list of physical and technical attributes. I myself would rate the players on this criteria and by the end of preseason we would give each player an average score from the combination of each staff member's assessment. 

I had asked an old friend from the University of Algiers to come along and speak with the players over the course of August. He was a professor of psychology and specialised in athletes. I wanted him to get to know the players by interviewing them. He would pass a brief sketch of each player's psychological profile on to me. While this was no substitute for getting to know the players over time, it would give me some indication of who was most likely to confront me and challenge my authority. 

I was able to return to the training ground and finish my planning for preseason. I helped the cleaner get everything in order for the players returning. We gutted one of the old cupboards in the gym and ordered new equipment to replace the most antiquated. We even managed to get rid of the last bits of graffiti that had been left by the club's fanatical element. Sami, who as well as being the receptionist was also responsible for the club's website, started moving the club onto social media. We spent one afternoon setting up Twitter and Instagram accounts. Everything was starting to come together. All that was left to do was prepare for my introduction to the backroom team and then the players. 

Saturday arrived and I headed in to work early. I had asked the new catering staff to join me that morning so that we could prepare a small banquet for the backroom personnel. I helped prepare things in the kitchen. We had a healthy breakfast offering set up. Finally the staff arrived and were guided to the canteen area by Sami. I was expecting to see more faces, but apparently the club had only renewed the contracts of six staff members from the previous season. Boualem, whom I had planned to meet to discuss the backroom team, had conveniently headed back to Algiers for 'business' reasons and had been unable to reschedule. My assistant manager, a goalkeeping coach, a fitness coach, the team doctor, a physio and the club's only scout sat down around a table that had been set up for breakfast. "Is this everyone?" I asked. A few nods confirmed that indeed, no more people were coming. I asked the catering staff, Sami and the cleaner to join us. Everyone seemed to enjoy the food and drink on offer. I had managed to source some of the Ethiopian coffee that I had tried in the waterfront cafe on my first day in Bejaia. The culinary success raised spirits and my audience were mentally prepared for my opening speech:

"If I may interrupt your breakfast for a moment, I'd like to say a few words.

For those of you that I have not had the pleasure of meeting so far, I am blessed by your presence here today. This is the beginning of our collective story. I believe that all of history is made up of small acts that create a bigger picture. Often, significant details are lost amidst the turmoil of revolutions and wars. I want you to be in no mistake about your significance to this piece of history: you are the axis upon which this club turns. Without you, we would be no more than a football team. With you, we are a club. Whether you are a caterer, a cleaner, a coach or a medic, you are an important constituent part of JSM Bejaia. Whatever is achieved, you are part of it. 

I have some changes that I will be making to the everyday operations at the club. But I want to assure you that we will not be reducing the staff numbers any further. In fact, I intend to push for additions. Each of you will remain in your current roles, though your everyday activities will likely change. 

Today, I would like to sit down with each one of you individually in my office. Before that I will give a brief overview of what I have in mind for preseason beginning on Monday. You are of course welcome to suggest alterations to my plans. But I expect any proposition to be supported by sound argumentation. I will not be entertaining any notion that we should continue to do what is habitual. Previous habits have led this club to where it is today; it is time we started to change that.

Thank you for your attention. 

Does anyone have anything they would like to say before we get down to business?"

My speech was greeted by a round of applause. Ceremonial, I imagine. 

I explained the day to day plans for the next month and what drills I was hoping to implement. I discussed my method for assessing player attributes. I asked the club physio to attend a few training sessions and add to our physical evaluation of the players. The club scout was instructed to create a greater local network with youth coaches and community leaders. 

The one-to-one interviews offered me much encouragement. We had an intelligent and determined team. My assistant manager, Hassen Hammouche, at fifty-five years old, would be key in commanding the respect of the players. I asked him to write down the names of the players that were leaders in the dressing room and those that could be potentially troublesome. Thankfully, the latter list was small. 

I brought the staff together late afternoon and thanked them for attending the introductory meeting on a Saturday. I had sanctioned the Sunday off and asked them to be well rested for work on Monday. 

In a couple of days I would begin work with the players. A solid month and a half of building fitness and putting across new tactical ideas. Our preseason match schedule consisted of two games against smaller teams from the region, a home tie against one of Tunisia's biggest clubs, ES Sahel, and two games away to Algerian Ligue 1 sides, including a local rival, JS Kabylie. I would have to use the time over preseason to stamp my authority on the team. If we went into the campaign in any doubts about my leading this team, we would be setting ourselves up for trouble. I had just over a month to win the hearts and minds of the players before trying to do the same with the supporters. Given the messages they'd left me earlier in the week, it was going to take some doing. 

Was I ready for it all? 

 

[Tikka Mezzala]

The Austrian philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein took exception to what he called the human "craving for generality". In their quest to understand language and meaning, philosophers had often tried to create uniform principles that explained how language took on meaning in all circumstances. This scientific approach to the study of meaning struck Wittgenstein as misguided. He decided to give the example of the term 'game'. Was it possible to give a unitary definition of this word? After all, there are a whole variety of games that do not seem to have much in common with one another. Try as one may, there didn't seem to be any grounding property whereby one could define the word 'game' by appealing to this property. Ball games differ greatly from card games. Some games are played with a goal in mind, such as football; others are played much more platonically: a child throwing a ball against a wall and catching it, for example. One could not appeal to enjoyment as a necessary and sufficient feature of games either, as this would not distinguish games from any other activity that one carried out for enjoyment, such as singing in the shower. Despite this difficulty in grounding the meaning of the word, we still understand it and use it appropriately within our everyday speech. Although words appear to the senses as quite uniform, their uses are very diverse. As Wittgenstein put it:

"It is like looking into the cabin of a locomotive. We see handles all looking more or less alike. (Naturally, since they are all supposed to be handled.) But one is the handle of a crank which can be moved continuously (it regulates the opening of a valve); another is the handle of a switch, which has only two effective positions, it is either off or on; a third is the handle of a brake-lever, the harder one pulls on it, the harder it brakes; a fourth, the handle of a pump: it has an effect only so long as it is moved to and fro."

I had chosen a formation for the team to try out during preseason: it has often been described as a 4-3-3, although 4-1-4-1 may be more accurate, given how the role of the wide players will involve a fair amount of defensive responsibility. I looked at the formation as it appeared on paper. Within this basic shape there was room for plenty of manoeuvring. I had no idea how suited the players would be to this particular team shape, however, I had to be proactive. We could not afford to wait until halfway through preseason before deciding on our tactical setup as I wanted us to be well familiar with it before the competitive football kicked off. 

In Switzerland I had worked with a coach at Black Stars Basel that utilised the 4-1-4-1 formation. He explained to me that depending on the number of strikers that the opposition played with, the role of the defensive midfielder would change: if there was two strikers in the opposition line-up, the holding player would slot in between the centre backs and create a three man central defence when we were in possession. This allowed both fullbacks to support attacks while giving us an extra player to keep an eye on the strikers. If the other team had only one striker, then the defensive midfielder would get closer to the play and offer himself as an option in recycling the possession. The roles of the two central midfield players would also vary depending on the role of the player behind them. If the holding player had to become a third centre back, one of the central midfield players would sit deeper so that there was not a major disconnection between the defence and the midfield. Given the different roles the central midfield trio would have to play, I needed to ensure that there was a good level of tactical understanding in the players I chose to occupy these positions in the team. 

The wide midfielders would play as traditional wingers. I wanted to avoid having too many players moving into the central area of the pitch, so I would ask them to keep their general movement exclusive to the wings. The one concern I had with the wide midfield roles was the defensive discipline of the players. I had been told by my assistant that we possessed a couple of skilful players in these positions but they did not demonstrate a great work ethic. I would have to choose between keeping the natural wingers in the team who could offer something going forward, or retraining fullbacks to play further forward so that I could have a little bit more security in a defensive sense. This would, of course, limit our attacking play down both sides. 

I reviewed my tactical notes over breakfast before the players arrived at the training ground. Ideally we would press high and win the ball before our opponents could break into our defensive third. But this is not an ideal world we live in: pressing would involve good levels of fitness and a high level of understanding between the players. If we implemented a high pressing game without both of these qualities, we would open ourselves up to serious problems. I would have to assess the prospects of our pressing abilities in the early weeks of preseason and prepare a plan-b. If we could not successfully press high then I felt our best alternative was to organise ourselves into a tight defensive unit and wait for a misplaced pass from our opponent. This, too, involved risk. We would have to display good levels of understanding and positioning. Allowing the opposition into our half without much resistance could put us under more pressure than we could handle. Although this approach did not demand as much physically as the pressing system. 

My assistant manager had arrived early and I discussed ideas with him in my office. "We've tried pressing before, Albert. The players hate it. We have one or two willing to do the running, but others let them down. It caused a lot of grief for the previous manager". Plan-b it is. 

The players started to arrive one by one between 8am and 9am. I asked Hassen to greet each of them and direct them to the canteen area for breakfast. The plan was to let them enjoy eating together before I introduced myself. I peered out of my office window and watched the men arrive. Not many of them looked eager to return to training. I allowed forty-five minutes for breakfast before I headed down to join them. As I made my way to the front of the canteen, the noise levels dropped suddenly. A few whispers were audible and glances were flying from one table to the next. I turned to face the group, clasped my hands together and said "follow me, gentlemen". 

I led the players out of the front entrance and got them to gather around me. I had placed three paint tins and a dozen brushes at the foot of the training centre wall. I had bought green, red and white paint from the decorators that helped me get my office together. The players looked at one another, perplexed. "Every time you come to training you make the same journey from the car park to the main doors, just behind you. I watched each of you make this small walk this morning. When I first arrived here on my first day in the job, I noticed this on the wall". I pointed to the club emblem and ran my gaze across each player's face. Most of them stood cross-armed impatiently waiting for me to get to my point. "This, gentlemen, is the symbol of JSM Bejaia. Do you agree?" A few nods confirmed their agreement. "When I first seen this on the wall, I didn't think about this football club. Do you know what thoughts crossed my mind? Decay. Disrepair. This no longer symbolises a football club with aspirations of being the best team in Algeria. It symbolises our decline; the fall. How dare you walk in here each day and pay no mind to this broken crest! Every day a visual representation of our predicament passes through your consciousness and you think little of it. You think that it is just a stupid little painting on the wall? Well go and tell that to the supporters. You are probably aware that a few of them were here a week or so ago and added a couple of paintings of their own to the wall. They covered the entirety of the front face of this building with their messages. Do you know the only part of the wall that they did not go near? That's right. Before we get to work today, I want each of you to restore this image to its proper state. I want you all to bring it back to life. I want every player to contribute something to it. When you are done go to the changing rooms and get ready for our first session of the day."

I returned to my office, shut the door behind me, and leaned against the wall. My heart was racing, I was breathing heavily and my arms shook violently. I felt exhausted from putting on that show down there. I felt unable to face the rest of the day. Eventually I made my way over to my chair and sat down. I gazed into space for some time thinking about my old office job in Algiers. A light knock on the door ended my pensive state. It was my assistant manager. "Albert, come with me a moment." Hassen led me outside to view the job I had asked the players to carry out. Messages full of expletives had been scrawled across the wall; enough to suggest each player had in fact contributed to the task. The emblem remained faded and cracked from the dry heat. Hassen told me not to take it to heart, but I was not well versed in the culture of a football dressing room. My skin was thin, my soul sensitive. I asked Hassen to lead the morning session and headed back to my office, trembling with rage and fear. I felt like a common house cat stranded in the Savannah. I had been used to the mundane chit chat and backhanded compliments of a comfortable office job. I was totally out of my depth in this environment. 

Anxiety overtook me and I lay down on the small couch in the corner of my office, panic stricken. The walls, my desk, the sunlight creeping through the blinds all felt hostile. I had to get out of this place and return to somewhere neutral; somewhere nobody knew my face or could interpret my inner turmoil. I thought about phoning a taxi and sneaking out of here while the morning session was taking place. I could return to Algiers and change my number. I could just slip into the dark night of history and pretend this whole thing never happened. It was still early enough in the season for them to find a replacement. I entertained this fantasy for a while before it hit me: I am under contract. I can't simply walk away, there would be legal trouble. It would come out in the press that I had tried to run away from the job. Even my old boss at the port authority would turn me down after that. I was trapped. I lay staring at the clock on my wall, forcefully trying to will it backwards. Time moved too quickly. Soon I would be expected to show my face; my panic stricken, embarrassing face. The players would smell the fear as though I had evacuated my bowels in their presence. That would be it, I'd become their dog on a leash. If one of them wasn't happy with the way I done things I would have to change or else they would threaten me. I got up and paced around the room. Should I laugh it off, pretend that I enjoy a bit of banter? Let's be honest, there was no way I had the courage to employ disciplinary measures. I had to laugh it off or head straight up to Boualem and plead for him to accept my resignation. I was erring on the side of the latter. At least Boualem seemed like the understanding type. 

I stepped out of my office, peering over the metal railing at the lobby area. It was clear. I scurried across to the meeting room. From here I had a view of the training pitch. It was a good view from an elevated height. I immediately felt this was the excuse I needed: I would watch training sessions from up here so that I could get a better view of things. It would keep me out of the way of those bastards. I peeked out of the meeting room door and ran across to my office to get notepads and a pen. I wrote extensively on what I was watching. I would show the notes to my assistant and convince him that I was benefiting from my view in the meeting room. 

My notes were elaborate and very tidy. I spent a great deal of time making them look as presentable as possible. The training session came to an end and I stood at the window hoping the coaches would see me. Out of nowhere a ball struck the window pane and I fell to the floor in fright. Laughter emanated from below, as I lay in a pool of my own sweat on the floor of the meeting room. 

Hassen came to find me and tell me the players were having lunch if I wanted to join them. I told him I wasn't feeling one hundred percent and would have to take the afternoon off. He didn't look totally convinced by my sudden illness, but accepted my excuse anyway. "We'll cover for you here, Albert. Go home and rest. Try and make it in tomorrow." 

I felt a sense of relief come over me. I had the rest of the day to go home and recover. I waited in the meeting room until the loud chatter from the canteen died down and the players were well out of sight. I sheepishly made my way down the stairs and jumped in the taxi I had phoned from my office. 

I headed to my room at the hotel, shut the curtains and lay on top of the unmade sheets. What a pathetic sight. The new manager of JSM Bejaia preparing for the 2018/19 season by hiding in his hotel room. If our Ligue 2 opponents could only witness this sight, they'd be rubbing their hands together. 

I pondered my predicament from beneath the covers. I had finally attained something that I had desired for most of my adult life and I was terrified of it. How could life possibly be worth living if our dreams can turn into our deepest nightmares before the second hand has done a full round of the clock?

I sat up and turned on the night-lamp. It was now 7pm. Training would have ended an hour or so ago. I picked up an empty journal I had intended to use for training notes but had forgotten to use. I flicked it open to the first page and began to write:

There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide...

 

 

[tenthreeleader]

I should say that you appear to be a writer after my own heart -- unhurried, and one who takes time to develop a character before showing how the game influences him.

Few writers who attempt what you are doing give the reader a reason to care about the backstory but those who do find themselves writing characters that they can't, and shouldn't, quit writing. The two who spring to the top of my head are Gavrenwick's Tina Powell and Copperhorse21's Copper Horse, though there are others. 

You've set up plot points which could twist in any direction and that is highly praiseworthy. It will also give you the option to take us in different directions during those times when the game is either slow or not providing opportunities to add story arcs.

My only comments at this point would be stylistic and that would be an insult to your writing, so I'll simply read on. Great job.

[Tikka Mezzala]

17 hours ago, tenthreeleader said:

I should say that you appear to be a writer after my own heart -- unhurried, and one who takes time to develop a character before showing how the game influences him.

Few writers who attempt what you are doing give the reader a reason to care about the backstory but those who do find themselves writing characters that they can't, and shouldn't, quit writing. The two who spring to the top of my head are Gavrenwick's Tina Powell and Copperhorse21's Copper Horse, though there are others. 

You've set up plot points which could twist in any direction and that is highly praiseworthy. It will also give you the option to take us in different directions during those times when the game is either slow or not providing opportunities to add story arcs.

My only comments at this point would be stylistic and that would be an insult to your writing, so I'll simply read on. Great job.

Thanks for your kind comments. 

 

I have decided to leave the story here for the time being. I am considering the next move. Although, it could perhaps become a story with the current ending, where Albert decides to become what he was destined to be: a writer. 

I am going to begin another project in the mean time. Hopefully it will be enjoyable too. 

[simon07]

I really hope you return with further posts, I've enjoyed reading this - it's inspired me to start writing again so thank you  

[Tikka Mezzala]

2 hours ago, simon07 said:

I really hope you return with further posts, I've enjoyed reading this - it's inspired me to start writing again so thank you  

I'm glad to hear it has inspired you, Simon. 

I think the story will continue. At this stage I am trying to think of how I can get Albert to overcome his impostor syndrome and assert himself. The idea is to move him from the current stage of his development, where he deals with the absurdity of his life and his surroundings, and move him to the next and final stage: the rebel. 

I am going to start working on a South American story in the mean time. 

[mark wilson27]

Pechorin like the others have said this is an excellent start to the story. The background and attention to detail is brilliant and has me intrigued to see how it pans out

[Tikka Mezzala]

13 hours ago, mark wilson27 said:

Pechorin like the others have said this is an excellent start to the story. The background and attention to detail is brilliant and has me intrigued to see how it pans out

Much appreciated!

I will resume the story in the next couple of weeks. Going to try and get my South American story up and running. 

[Tikka Mezzala]

As the sun came up over Bejaia, I lay in bed watching passing shadows glide across the ceiling, each one slipping away into darkened corners where they were consumed by their own essence. I felt like one of the fools in Plato's cave: satisfied to spend eternity believing in the world of shadows. In this room I was the boss. I could get up or stay in bed. Turn on the small television or take a drink from the minibar. I was free from the piercing and objectifying gazes of the players. Behind these walls I was Albert Camus, a series of possibilities. Out there I was the office worker from the port authority in Algiers: a coward and a fraud. 

I had spent the night writing and drinking. Amidst my inebriation I had penned an essay that tried to answer the question I had been asking myself of late: was life worth living? Perhaps it was the hard liquor talking, but it seemed to me as though the human condition was fundamentally absurd. The mind naturally enquired and the universe withheld the answers. All actions were doomed to fade into the crowded plaza of history and disappear among the blank faces. Most people, in an attempt to hide from this fact, commit an act of philosophical suicide. Leaps of faith allow them to believe in Gods or political ideals in an attempt to transcend the absurd. Perhaps this explains my motivations. I am in a job that allows me the possibility of achieving something that will live down the ages. Was this an attempt to add a purpose to my life? In the absence of metaphysical goals, was I turning to the goals scored on the football pitch in order to procure meaning? 

Sleep-deprived and hungover, I started to pull the knot of my tie up to sit closer to my neck line. I looked at myself in the mirror: my eyes were bloodshot; the bags under them added the appearance of years; my hair looked and felt oily, as though I had slept on a bed of petroleum. My shirt was creased and reeked of stale smoke. I buttoned up my suit jacket and knocked back another glass of whisky. I was ready to get back to work. 

I filled a flask with alcohol and took a taxi to the training centre. The main wall had been painted white in order to censor the messages of ridicule and disdain the players had left the day before. The club badge had even been painted over. The janitor stood with one foot pressed against the wall, smoking a cigarette. I staggered out of the taxi and straight up the stairs to my office, avoiding eye contact with anyone. I threw myself down onto the couch and took another swig of whisky. I felt the anxiety melt away as I fell into the warm arms of hedonistic degeneracy. I got up from the couch and stumbled over to my desk so I could hide the flask in one of the drawers. The smell of booze was sure to alarm someone so I knew it was necessary to eat something and drink some coffee. I headed down to the canteen. Unfortunately my assistant had gotten there ahead of me. "Morning Albert, feeling better?" I tried to act sober. My attempt at a smile betrayed me and I could tell that Hassen suspected something was wrong. I turned my back to him and tried to walk naturally to the breakfast buffet. I hazily observed the food items in front of me. Having filled my plate I knew the hardest part had yet to come: I turned around and tried to walk over to one of the tables, but I ended up kicking the leg of one of the chairs, tripping up and dropping my plate of food all over the canteen floor. Some of the players had arrived moments before my fall. They stood in silent bemusement as I lay face down, surrounded by bits of tropical fruit and soggy cornflakes. Hassen rushed over to help me up, but I fell backwards onto the floor as soon as I had gotten back upright. In a moment of madness I shouted over at the players "I'll paint your f****** a**** if you ever disrespect me again. Do you hear me!" Hassen tried to save me further embarrassment by shushing me and helping me into a chair. I was given a glass of water and dismissed for the day. I was told to expect disciplinary action, and that my job was even in doubt.

Embarrassed and inebriated, I found myself lying on my rented bed watching passing shadows once again. A couple of hours later I received a text message saying I was suspended until July 21st. In the meantime I was to attend a psychologist on a weekly basis in order to ascertain whether I had an alcohol problem or an underlying mental health issue. I knew that the latter was more than likely, but alcohol was rarely a problem. I was surprised that I hadn't been outright sacked. I was determined to get my anxiety under control and redeem myself, but after the day's events I felt that the possibility was remote. 

 

  

 

 

[Tikka Mezzala]

I sat in the waiting area outside of the psychologist's office. On the small coffee table was a copy of today's newspaper. I turned it over to the back page: the team had lost their first game of preseason to an amateur side. There was talk of a crisis within the club as rumours swirled over the reasons for my absence. Boualem had told his trusted sources in the press that I was taking some 'personal time', but vicious whispers continued to undermine this official declaration. The journalist that had approached me to offer me encouragement during my meet and greet with the press had written a story claiming the players had revolted against my appointment. There was a kernel of truth to this claim, of course. I was simply grateful that the rest of the truth had not emerged. I felt embarrassed. I was forbidden from speaking to the press during my suspension, but the club did not need to tell me twice: my silence was very much self-imposed. I didn't want to speak to anyone about what had happened. Unfortunately I was attending this appointment to do exactly that; speak about what had happened.

I had expected a warm decor in the psychologist's office; nice pictures on the wall, African art on the shelves, psychologically comforting colours. Instead I was greeted by an extension of the cold impersonal surroundings of the waiting room. Dr Hamouchi asked me to sit in the seat facing his desk and began to ask me some questions. "Do you have any family history of psychological disorders? Any physical health problems, cardiac respiratory? Are you a smoker? Have you ever been prescribed medication for a mental health issue?" I answered the questions honestly. Dr Hamouchi had a harsh sounding voice and I felt as though he was handing out disciplinary action rather than trying to help me. He asked about my alcohol consumption. Again, I answered truthfully. The Dr looked down his glasses at me as I answered, as though he was unconvinced. "I have never used alcohol as a coping mechanism before. Honestly, I am very responsible with my drinking." After scribbling something down in his notepad Mr Hamouchi asked me to talk about the feelings that led me to turn to the bottle:

"I feel out of my depth, doctor. Like a fraud; someone pretending to be something they clearly are not. The worst part is I feel as though everyone else can see through the facade. I continually think back to people in my previous line of work and how they would be unconvinced by my attempt to change. To them, I am still the port authority worker. I have a lot of responsibility managing JSM and I feel like I am leading the ship straight into the rocks because I am not a captain. The players can see it, the coaching staff are beginning to see it and the fans will recognise it sooner or later. I really want this to work, but I feel stuck in my previous incarnation. I am unable to escape who I am."

The doctor continued to write down notes. "What about the physical symptoms, Albert? Can you describe those?" I told him about the tight chest, the trembling, the stiffness of the neck and the panic. "We can deal with these physical symptoms with medication for the most part, Albert, but I think we should spend the next few sessions trying to understand the root cause of your anxiety. It seems as though you have deep seated beliefs about yourself that are holding you back. If we can rationally challenge them then we will be able to manage your expectations and hopefully see you less troubled by these thoughts." He prescribed me some anti-anxiety medication and scheduled the next appointment for the following week. I left with a feeling of impatience. I wanted to crack the code and rid myself of anxiety immediately. 

I attended the appointments twice more before meeting with Boualem to discuss my future. The medication had helped with the physical symptoms and I was following the doctor's advice and writing a thought journal, challenging unhelpful beliefs whenever they arose. Boualem was pleased to hear that I was making some progress. "Albert, we are concerned about you. I want you to know that we have full confidence in your ability to get back on the horse. In light of this, I think it would be inappropriate to pursue disciplinary action due to your ongoing mental health struggles. Thankfully, Dr Hamouchi thinks you will be able to return to work so long as you keep taking the medication. Myself and Rachid are both in agreement about this: you are the man we want to take the club into the new campaign. Obviously the preparations have been wayward because of all that has happened, but we have two friendly matches left before the season gets under way. We want you in the dugout for them. Can you do this?" I broke down in tears. I was grateful that I was given the full support of the chairman. My anxiety had not ruined my chances of managing the team. I told Boualem that I was ready to get back to work. He filled me in on the preseason campaign so far. Another two friendlies had been played: a 1-1 draw at home to Tunisian giants ES Sahel had given the team hope, before another humiliating defeat to an amateur side. Clearly the team was struggling. To add to the problems, Boualem told me that he had agreed to play a friendly match against Moloudia Bejaia in order to raise some funds. The game would be played at our shared 25,000 capacity stadium, with the gate receipts and ticket allocation split fifty-fifty. Both teams were in need of a cash boost and the financial incentive was enough to get the respective chairman around the table for talks. "The game is going to be televised and we are expecting a capacity crowd. We need the money, Albert. I understand if you would prefer to wait until after the game to take over." I told Boualem that I would take responsibility for the derby. I felt as though it was my chance to redeem myself in the eyes of the players and the supporters. I had one week to prepare. 

A baptism of fire awaited me. 

 

  

 

 

[Tikka Mezzala]

I arrived at work early and sat alone in the canteen. I stared pensively into space as people started to arrive around me. My notes sat neatly in a pile next to my bowl of cereal. They contained all of the drills for the week along with opposition analysis. Given the results of preseason so far I had decided to go back to basics and prepare the team in a 4-4-2 shape with attacking wingers and a striker dropping deep to link with the midfield. Out of possession we would quickly regroup and organise a compact block with two lines of four, showing the opponent out wide. We would live and die by our organisational abilities. 

Before training I briefed the staff. The meeting started with an apology and a promise that I was ready to resume full responsibility. The medication was working well and I was able to focus on the content of my notes rather than worry about physical symptoms of anxiety. My confidence grew the more I talked. I was encouraged by the concentrated looks on the faces of the staff. It was clear that we were on the same page. 

The time had finally come to address the players for the first time since my embarrassing breakdown. I made my way to the changing rooms at the side of the grass pitch and stood in the middle of the players. "Gentlemen, let me first say how sorry I am. I have failed to live up to the task of leading you through preseason so far. My behaviour has been well below the standard that I would expect of all of you, and I understand that I have a long way to go to earn your respect. One thing is clear, however: we cannot afford to let what has happened in the last few weeks get in the way of our preparations for this week's game. Regardless of what you think of me and my behaviour, we are heading into battle with the enemy. The supporters have been enduring the mockery from the Moloudia supporters. The media have written us off already. They believe we are in meltdown. We have a chance to turn everything on its head. If we win on Saturday, the tide will turn. People will start to question them and get off our backs. The rumours of a rift between us will subside and we can get back to concentrating on building a positive relationship together. I know it is quite rich of me to ask this of you, but can you give me the effort we need to win this? If you do, I will be eternally grateful!"

The team captain stepped forward: "Boss, follow us." I was taken out to the front of the training centre. The janitor was waiting with some paint cans and a few brushes. Hassen had finished sketching the outline of the club badge. One by one, the players stepped forward and added the club's colours to the outline. Every player contributed. Finally, one of the brushes was handed to me. I dipped it in the red paint and wrote the letters 'JSMB' in the middle of the crest. Boualem had appeared and was smiling at the scene. For the first time since my appointment everyone had come together. 

The players worked tirelessly in training and carried out the exercises with enthusiasm. While it would take some time for the tactical side of things to be fully learned, they displayed a competency that encouraged me. We would not be making life easy for Moloudia if we could transfer our work rate and application from the training pitch to the game on Saturday. 

As the match edged closer, the build up in the media was dominated by talk of unrest in our camp. Even Boualem's sources were unable to quell the rumours. I had a chance to speak with the media on the eve of the game, and I intended to use it to full effect. When asked about the relationship between me and the players I admitted the road had been rocky. "Myself and the playing group here did not fall naturally into each others' arms. There has been a period of tension and difficulty, but we have come through it stronger. I can assure you that what you will see tomorrow is eleven players ready to die for the shirt." The faces looked unconvinced and it was clear that my words were powerless without the evidence. Only a good performance tomorrow would put the unrest talk into the dustbin of history. Perhaps it was the effects of the medication, but I felt ready. I believed in the players. 

 

 

[Tikka Mezzala]

Just an update: the next instalment of this will be some time in May/June. 

Exams etc to get out the way first. But there will be more!