| FMF's Toon Army Spiderman and member of the Writers Crew Join Date: Jan 2008 Location: wiltshire Posts: 1,832 Thanks: 235 Thanked 433 Times in 411 Posts | 
Hot Prospects
The message was brief. Since I lived in Westbury, This man named Jorge would catch the first morning flight he could into Bristol Airport, and catch the train down to Bath. He then wanted to meet me at the Abbey Hotel in the centre of Bath. I was to meet him at the bar, and in order for him to recognise me, leave my keys and mobile phone to the left of my drink. He estimated he would arrive at the hotel around 1pm.
“That was it?” I looked at Tam incredulously.
“That’s all he said” replied Tam.
I shook my head. “So I’m supposed to meet a guy I’ve never met, in a hotel I’ve never been to, in order to discuss a job at some random football club, the name of which seems to have escaped his attention to tell me.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine dear” said Tam “Are you making our dinner or not?”
After a pretty much sleepless night, I did my usual routines, then I got myself ready to meet “Jorge” in Bath. The city centre is only about 25 minutes from my house, nonetheless I left a full hour early, not wanting to chance the traffic, and Bath’s complete lack of parking. I arrived at the hotel and although I looked ok, I couldn’t help but feel a little out of place amongst the business suits and higher society types.
Plonking myself at the bar, I ordered a lager shandy and waited, making sure to arrange my keys and phone as requested. I tried not to look too interested in my surroundings, but to be honest any of these men in here could easily have been my Polaris World sounding new friend.
1.15pm came and went and I was starting to wonder if this was a stupid joke, when a largish, grey haired man who had been sat for a while maybe three or four tables away reading a newspaper, suddenly stood up and walked over. He stood next to me and ordered an orange juice then turned to me
“You must be Steve Hart?” There was that accent.
I looked up at him “Er...Yes...Jorge?”
He smiled at me and thrust out his hand “Actually my name is Keizer, Piet Keizer. I’m sorry to have given you a false name, but we couldn’t run the risk of anyone knowing we were in the country or what we are doing here.” He sipped at his drink and invited me over to the far side of the restaurant, into a more private booth. I picked up all my bits and followed him, a little bewildered.
“So why do you want to speak to me?” I asked “Am I in some sort of trouble?”
He regarded me for a minute, steely eyes set into a large but not unfriendly face, giving nothing at all away. “Tell me a little about your football experience, my friend” he replied, not answering my question. There was no bumbling, like on the phone. His english was near flawless.
I told him what little football experience I had, having the feeling this guy may have already checked up on me. I included my playing career, short as it was, my coaching which had lead to my qualifications, and my love for Newcastle United.
He asked me a few more questions, and the atmosphere relaxed, this guy all the time studying me. He told me the club he worked for was fairly big, and obviously not in England. If I took the position he was offering, I would need to relocate. He wouldn’t digress where though.
Finally he asked me about youth players. In my opinion, who were the best up and coming youngsters I’d heard of? Mr Keizer at this point drew out a writing pad, and expensive looking silver pen, and after scribbling for a second on it, presented me with what looked like 11 dots set into a football formation, 4-3-3 in front of a keeper. Then he asked me to fill it in with my ideal team of youngsters.
After giving it some thought for two or three minutes I presented him back with my eleven. He read it quickly, regarded me again briefly over the pad, then re-read the line-up. Without any change in facial expression he whipped out another, and presented it to me.
“Here’s one I...how you say...made earlier.” He said with a slight smile on his face.
I was aghast. With the exception of three names, the squad was near identical to my own.
“Er...How did you do that?” I asked, fearing this guy was some sort of magician, and dreading what he would come out with next!
“Great minds...Mr Hart” He smiled. He pulled out a sheet of a4 paper. “These are the terms we are willing to offer the right candidate” He said. “Our current manager is to join a club in England, probably Chelsea Football Club later this year, but has agreed to stay on until we found a replacement. Our fans are some of the world’s most passionate, and for him, unfortunately, they hate him. To make it harder for me still, they are very particular about any new faces coming in, especially high profile names.” He regarded me with his same steely gaze for a second, then with a slight flicker behind his eyes, seemed to make his mind up.
He pushed me over the paper, and held out his pen. “We will offer you a two year contract worth 7500 Euros a week. At the end of this two year plan my board would like to be challenging for our domestic title, and to be a force once more in Europe. You will try and obtain the best youngsters in the world for our academy, so we can initiate a new renaissance period for our club.” He looked at me again. “We have never had an English manager, I would like very much, for you to be the first.”
I stared at him with my mouth open stupidly I had read the contract. It included a house, a car, massive benefits package, and above all else nearly as much money a month, as I had earned in a year previously.
I looked down again at the dotted line................ |
