Thread: The Life & Death of a Local Hero

Nice start mate not too bad!! gl & kiu!

I opened the drawer and I lifted out the bottle. Half empty, as usual. I filled my glass and lay back in my chair, raised my glass and gulped hard. It looked like the light was flickering, it always flickered these days.

I could still hear them. Hear them whispering, see them pointing. 80,000 fans, more interested in me than a 3-0 win against Milan that took us top for the first time in ten years. Surrounded by 80,000 people and I could hear every word.

They’d travelled without me. I’d got there eventually. The players looked nervous, Mauro looked worried, but not about the match.

“What the hell happened?” asked Mauro.

“Gaffer, are you alright?” asked Daniele.

“We can win this.” I said.

And win we did. The heavens had opened, but I stood by the pitch. No coat, no umbrella, I just stood and watched. Stood and listened to them whisper, saw them point.

By half time it was 2-0, we were coasting. I’d walked past the dressing room;

“Gaffer?” asked Mauro.

I’d ignored him. I’d kept walking. Walking to my office, opening my drawer and pouring my drink. I’d closed my eyes and pretended I couldn’t hear them whispering.

Back just in time for the second half.

“You know what I want. You know what I always want.” I shouted from the sidelines.

The players looked nervous, but not about the match.

3-0 in the 57th minute. 3-0 at full time. This time I walked with my team, I shook their hands and I patted their backs. Top for the first time in ten years.

“This is our season.” I’d said.

“You’re contract won’t be renewed.” He’d said.

I filled my glass again. Lay back in my chair.

###

I always hated training on a Monday. Never involved, always preparing. My team left in the hands of right hand men while I prepared for the autopsy of a press conference them upsatris always organised. I hated the press and hated them upstairs.

I watched the lads out the window, laughing and joking. I watched them, drinking and dreading. There was a knock on the door, I ignored it, but Mauro walked in.

"Drink?" I asked.

He looked half at me, half at the floor.

"They want me to take the press conference."

"Drink?" I asked again.

"Is that all you have to say?"

"You know as well as I do that no matter what they want, i'll be taking that press conference. Drink?"

Mauro sat down, but we didn't speak.

The usual faces stared back at me in the club press room, judging me before i'd even opened my mouth. The cameras flashed, the vermin chattered, them upstairs shifted in their seats.Question after question, answered by everyone but me, their eagerness to keep me quiet all too obvious.

"What can you tell us about the rumours that you won't be in charge next season?"

The room quietened.

"That's not something we wish to discuss right now." Came the response.

"Pffft." came out before I could think.

The cameras flashed, them upsatirs shifted, the vermin chattered. I reached for the glass of water in front of me, concentrating hard. My hand crashed into it sedning it rolling across the table, it's contents covering the table and dripping into my lap.

The room quietned. The cameras flashed. Them upstairs sighed.

###

277 miles is too far to drive apparently, so we had made the trip to Brescia in the clubs private jet. The players were in good spirits, laughing joking, the embarrassment of Monday long behind them. The same couldn’t be said for Mauro, at least his fear of flying was some excuse for his ignoring me.

We had arrived in plenty of time. Plenty of time for the players to warm up, plenty of time for me to enjoy Brescia’s hospitality. Mauro joined me, but he didn’t talk.

Ten minutes before kick off and I’d gathered the players in the dressing room. They looked at me, they weren’t nervous, they weren’t worried.

“I’ve been at this club for 15 years. 6 as coach, 9 as manager. I was here when we won the league, and I was here when we just about escaped the following season. How many of you know what it’s like to be a winner?”

They just stared back at me.

“None of you. Not a single one of you. Do you know what I think of that?”

Now they were nervous, now they were worried.

“I think it’s a bloody disgrace. I think that each and every one of you deserves to be a winner for the way you’ve played this season and I think that I want to be remembered as a winner. If you can’t do it for yourselves, do it for me and if you can’t do it for me, you don’t deserve to be here.”

I turned round and I walked out, Mauro followed.

“Well?”

“When you’re good you’re good.”

“And when I’m bad?”

“You’re awful.”

There was only 20,000 in the stadium, but boy could they make some noise. They were hushed in the 15th minutes when Martin was brought down in their box and Velotto pointed to the spot. Andre converted it, and converted it again in the 29th minutes, Waite scoring in the 20th. 3-0 at half time and coasting.

Marconi made it 3-1 in the 80th and Martin added a fourth for us deep in injury time.

They were laughing and joking, I was proud. We walked to the team bus together, a team, ready to win.

“OUT, OUT, OUT.”

I heard it loud and clear from behind. I spun. I looked. There was noone there. The flight home and it was my turn not to talk.

Really into this mate just trying to figure out what team you are tbh lol. gl & kiu anyways :)

It's a secret ;)

I can't figure out how to do consecutive posts, rather than one long post, as I have already completed the sotry and wanted to post it all.

###

I hadn’t slept. I’d drank all night, but I hadn’t slept. It was the 64th minute in a home match against Chievo, I’d just watched Martin complete his hat-trick and make it 5-0, but I wasn’t celebrating on the side of the pitch. The players weren’t celebrating, and the fans weren’t celebrating. They were all watching. Watching me. Watching me trudge down the byline. Making my way from the dugout to the dressing room. It was the 64th minute.

I sat in the dressing room, hands on my knees, door locked, waiting. The door had been knocked a few time, the handle rattled, I’d told them to go away. Thirty minutes passed and the door shook, it was the team. I got up, unlocked the door and opened it.

“Come on in lads.”

They looked at me like I had two heads, walked past and sat down. There was silence.

“Now that’s Championship form.”

“Are you having a laugh?” Daniele piped up, “That was bang out of order! The press are going to rip us to shreds! We thought something was wrong!”

“Calm down son.”

“Calm down?! Are you ****ed?”

“No son.”

“Then what’s the excuse? Don’t you think we deserve an explanation?”

I looked around the room. The older faces were angry, the younger faces were worried.

“We had 80,000 here when we played Milan, 50,000 tonight. 30,000 “fans” couldn’t be bothered to come and watch tonight, so I’ll be damned if I have to sit out there in the ****in’ rain.”

They looked at me, their mouths open. Mauro grabbed my arm and motioned me through the door.

###

It was wet again, but it was warm. It was pouring, but I was sweating. Sitting in the dugout, shaking my leg. Footballers are funny creatures, very fickle, they believe wht they're told to believe. "The Gaffer's under a lot of pressure from them upstairs. We have to keep it together for him", Mauro had told them, Mauro had calmed them. It was six days later and we were home again. 50,000 poor souls watching us battle with Catania in one of the worst games i've ever seen. A youther reached for my sports bottle;

"NO!" I screamed.

He jumped, those around us turned.

"Sorry son, I don't like sharing drinks."

I'm sure he nearly laughed.

It's 0-0, my legs shaking. The wolves are at the door. Milan are the wolves, only a point behind. I've had enough, I get up and march to my area. It's pouring, I close my eyes and look towards the sky. The crowd roars and I jump. Moonen is sprinting towards me, followed by his teammates. I'm not ready and as he hits me and throws his arms around me I fall back, sprawling on the turf. They jump on me, they hug me, but the papers won't print this, they'll print me scrambling on the sidelines. Vermin.

After I pick myself up and dust myself off, i'm soaked through, I retake my seat and Mauro grabs my knee, squeezes my knee. He knows this is it. This is our season. Lacroix confirms Catania's misery in the 76th, this kid's a star. 2-0 and coasting, 2-0 and top, 2-0 and no contract.

The players are gone, the press are taken care of, not by me, by Mauro. The stadiums empty and silent. I'm in the dugout and it's still pouring. I gulp hard on my drink and i'm all alone.

"OUT, OUT, OUT!"

I'm up, i'm running, down the sideline.

"Where are you, you *******? Come out and face me."

I'm sprinting round the pitch, bottle in hand. I'm all alone.

###

It’s February 28th, I hate February 28th. They all know I hate February 28th. Them upstairs wanted me to stay, but I wanted to get away. I didn’t want to be alone. I couldn’t be alone on February 28th. All the drinking, all the football, all the winning in the world, couldn’t make me enjoy February 28th.

We’re in Glasgow. It’s the Champions League, the holy grail, the trophy. We’re playing Rangers. It’s the first knockout round, first leg at Ibrox. Their fans are loyal and proud and they make sure you know it. The noise is deafening, the football frantic, but I’m not there. I’m in the dugout, but I’m not here. I’m staring at the ground, I’m not involved, I’m just there, but I’m not here.

Edu gives the fans what they want in the 42nd minute. A well placed curler from the edge of the area, so I’m told. Martin is injured in the 46th minute, so I’m told. Half time comes and goes, I can’t even remember what I said, but it didn’t work. Nothing happens in the second half. Nothing at all. Perhaps I’m lucky I wasn’t watching.

The bus back to the hotel is silent. They all know I hate February 28th. Mauro rests his book on the table between our chairs.

“1-0 away from home isn’t all bad Gaffer.”

“Aye. It isn’t all bad.” I say, staring into space.

Mauro pauses, not sure whether to say it or not.

“I can’t believe it’s been a year.”

“Aye.”

“She’d be proud of you.”

“Would she?”

I drain my glass and pour another.

This is really good so far mate, i wanna find out what club it is tho lol

I was in early this morning. Up at 5am, out by 6am, in the office by 7am and sitting on the training pitch by 8am. They hadn’t been due in until 10am, so I trained by myself. Round and round I ran, lap after lap after lap. Sick twice, but that just meant I was doing something right.

It’s 10.30am now. They’re all here now, not all on time. They’re standing with Mauro, watching me run. Round and round and round. I pass them;

“Gaffer, what are you doing?” Shouts Mauro.

I keep running. I come round to pass them again.

“I’m training.”

I keep running. I come round to pass them again.

“Been training since 8, now come on, follow me.”

They’re apprehensive, they begin to jog tentatively behind me. I come round past Mauro again.

“Come on Gaffer, leave them to it, eh.”

I speed up, round and round, lap after lap.

“Come on you bunch of pansies! Keep up.”

###

Away, away, home, home, away. That’s what I have to look forward to in March. Home games are bad, away games are worse. Idiot fans who tell you exactly what they want, not necessarily what they think. We’re in Ascoli. We’re still top and we’re on course.

“I feel sorry for him, he’s had a tough time, but a lot of it is of his own making.”

He always had something to say. That man. That man sitting on his high horse, his Milan high horse, expecting a reaction. He’ll get a reaction, from my players not from me.

“They all want you fail, you’re not the people’s choice, you’re my choice. You’re my players. You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe and if I didn’t believe I wouldn’t be here.”

They’d worn their hearts on their sleeves. Shaking my hand, looking me in the eye. They were out for blood. My team, my boys, doing it for me.

Ascoli are spirited, they’re trying their best, but we’re too good. I’m on the sidelines. I’m out for blood. 12 minutes in and Lacroix dinks the ball over their keeper, one on one after a Guerriero through ball. 1-0, I clinch my fists, I roar. Half time’s approaching, Andre goes down, down too easy, Tagliavento points to the spot. I don’t react. I don’t react when Andre steps up, I’m ashamed. I wanted blood, but not like this.

“Don’t even think about leaving this room! Get changed and get back to the hotel. NOW!”

Andre looks sheepish. They all look sheepish.

“Alberto?”

“Yes Gaffer.”

“You’re taking kick off, you’ll let them score.”

“Gaffer?”

“You heard me.”

I turn, I walk out. They all look sheepish, they should be ashamed.

It finishes 2-1, Alberto lets them score. The crowd don’t recover. The match, the day, the atmosphere is dead.

We’re back at the hotel. We’re in the bar. The players are celebrating, Milan have lost. We’re four points clear. I watch them from the back of the room. They deserve to celebrate, but not like this.

###

The games are coming thick and fast. The players are tired, I’m exhausted. We’re away to Fiorentina, bitter rivals. We’ve enjoyed watching every moment of their demise. Relegation fodder, couldn’t happen to a deserving club.

It’s 3pm, we’re walking down the tunnel. The noise is deafening, their fans know how to follow, I’ll give them that. I lead out my team and the boos begin, the abuse begins. They hate us, they hate me. I turn to Daniele;

“Shut this lot up.”

Daniele smiles and pats me on the back.

Mauro and I take our seats, the game begins. This isn’t a game, this is a master class. We pass between them. We trick our way past them. We give them a sniff and then we embarrass them. Mattia cuts in from the right and curls it, curls it into the corner, curls us into an 11th minute lead. The crowd get louder.

Davide pounces on a mistake, through the keepers legs. It’s 2-0. 36 gone and the crowd get quieter. It’s half time.

“It’s lovely to watch, ok to read. Humiliate them. Destroy them. Send them home to cry on their wives shoulders.”

70 minutes and it’s 3-0. Davide again. The crowd are silent. I’m on the sideline, revelling in their despair. 72, Montolivio gives them a sniff. 81, Moonen puts it beyond doubt.

I’m walking down the sidelines, laughing to myself. I can hear their screams, their anguish and it feels good. I approach our supporters, a small corner of the ground. I salute them, I encourage them. As I turn I catch a glimpse, a banner.

“OUT, OUT, OUT!”

I whip round. It’s gone.

Ooo Really good work here mate though if you die then what will happen then :(!! gl & kiu!

1-0 down. 3-1 overall. Rangers dispatched, with ease. The Champions League Quarter Finals on their way, but I’m not celebrating. I’m not with my team. I’m not with my heroes. I’m with Mauro, and Mauro insisted.

“It could be good news.” He’d said.

“They can’t ignore us.” He’d said.

In the boxes, after the match. Surrounded by them. Them upstairs. Smiling and joking, without a care in the world. When the goings good they’re happy, when the goings bad they’re happy, when the money drys up they’re furious.

“Perhaps it’s time we talked about next season.” They’d said.

“I’ll win the league and leave you to pick up the pieces.” I’d said.

They’d looked at me. They’d laughed. It wasn’t a joke.

I’m by the bar, they’re schmoozeing around.

“Not you’re type of party Sir.” Said the bar boy.

“Not my type of lowlife.” I reply. “Get me another, son.”

###

I’m sick. I know I’m sick. The sleepless night. The bottomless glass is catching up on me. My heads buzzing. I can’t think straight. I’m pale. I’m sweating. I’m sick, but I’m here.

We’re at home to Reggina and Milan have lost again. The possibility to go 7 clear and I can’t think straight. I’m mumbling through a team talk. Trying my best, but they’re looking at me. Looking at me like I’m sick. Mauro’s interrupting, but I’m mumbling on. God knows what I’m saying. I’m just mumbling on.

Mauro suggests I sit in the stands. I suggest he gets stuffed.

I’m watching, but it doesn’t make sense. They’re nervous, scared of going 7 clear, scared of the pressure. I can barely make them out. They’re just figures buzzing round a pitch. I rest my head in my hands and the vermin circle. I can hear them scuttling. I have to do something. I’m up, I’m making my way to pitch side, Mauro is calling. I’m stumbling. I’m reaching for it. Reaching for that bucket. As the whistle sounds for half time I’m vomiting. Vomiting in front of 50,000 people. 50,000 people whispering and pointing. Mauro helps me up. He helps me toward the tunnel.

They’re buzzing round me. Gaffer this, gaffer that. Concerned.

“Give him some space lads.” I hear Mauro say. “We’re gonna have the doc take a look at you.”

I raise my hand and wipe it down my face, drenched in sweat.

“No son, no. I’m ok. I’m fine.”

“You look terrible. You take a breather.”

“No son, seriously I’m fine. Something must have disagreed with me, but I’ve got rid of it now.”

“You sit the second half out, up in the stands. We’ll be fine gaffer.” Says Daniele.

“Listen son, what’s the score?”

They laugh.

“0-0 gaffer.”

“0-0! Those boys are at the foot of the table and you can’t even score one friggin’ goal.”

“He’s fine.” Laughs the doc.

“Too bloody right I’m fine, get me a drink I’ve a rotten taste in my mouth and I need to read the riot act!”

Half times over and we’re on our way out. I exit the tunnel, the stadium erupts. The crowd applaud. The crowd chant my name. I’m touched. I bow. I take my seat.

51 minutes and Martin takes it well, a header at the near post. I’m up I’m shaking my fist, showing them I’m fine. 60 and Moonen makes it two. That’s the way it stays, that’s the way it ends.

We’re 7 clear of Milan. I’m sick.

###

Five wins in a row. Another two and it’s another record. I’m in my office. It’s 10pm. It’s been four hours since we beat Lazio. A bloodbath of a match. My throat aches from screaming. My head throbs from caring.

Davide scored after 40 seconds, a header from an Andre cross. He scored again after 91, a lob, a beauty. Another Moonen goal and two reds for Lazio in between. They weren’t here to play football, they were here to break legs. Maim and injure. Jealousy, from the top to the bottom. Jealousy.

There’s a mountain of paperwork on the side of desk. A new contract to sign sitting on the top. I’m resisting the urge. I won’t back down. I won’t be at them upstairs beckon call. There’s a page in front of me. A cigarette burning in front of me. A drink sitting in front of me. I suck on the cigarette. I chug on the drink. I read the page. It’s a league table. A league table nine years old. There we are just above relegation and here we are top of the league. Read to be crowned champions. Ready to be vindicated.

There’s a knock at my door. I ignore it. Flavio, the cleaner, pops his head in.

“Oh, sorry sir. I thought everyone had gone home.”

“Don’t worry about it son.” He’s nearly twice my age. “I’m just avoiding the drive.”

“I hear you’re staying on sir.”

“Do you. We’ll see.”

“It’s an awful hour sir, why don’t you get OUT!”

My mouth opens, I stare at him.

“What did you say?”

“I’m just saying sir, it’s an awful hour and it’s rainin’ outside. Why don’t you get yourself home and get some rest.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“Sorry sir….”

I’m up. I’m stomping across the room. I’m grabbing him and I’m pinning him against the wall.

“THAT’S NOT WHAT YOU SAID.”

“S..s…s..sir. I was only saying, bout the weather and the time.”

I let go. I look at him. He’s nearly twice my age.

“I’m…I’m sorry son. I’m not feeling quite right.” I rest an arm on his shoulder. His shaken.

“Go home sir. You look like you could do with a rest.”

“Sit down son. You and I could do with a drink, a proper apology.”

I pat him on the back and smile.

###

I’m back in the firing line. Back on vermin duty. Them upstairs trying to convince everyone that they have faith. Trying to convince themselves.

“Seven games to play this month, this is make or break time.”

“Aye.”

“Some have claimed that you’re going to bottle it.”

There are sniggers around the room.

“Is there now.” I’m not going to rise to it.

“With so many games in such a short time, you’re bound to have some nagging doubts. Or are you trying to look at it in a positive light, a glass half full, so to speak.”

More sniggers.

“Look son, if you’ve something to say, say it. Don’t sit there and think you’re being smart with your little digs and your shiny white grin. We’re here to talk football and football only. I’m not going to rise to you. I’m not going to keep you in a job, and give you headlines.”

“I wouldn’t expect to get a headline from a press conference.”

“Is that right.”

“No. Most of them come from the sidelines these days. We’re wondering what you have in store for us today.”

I raise my glass and take a sip. Vermin.

It’s kick off. Genoa at home.

“One game at a time.” I told them. “All we can do is win it one game at a time.”

Moonen, this lads been a star, glances a header past the keeper in the 13th minute. Lacroix scores a scorcher after 30. 2-0 at half time and I make the changes. Daniele off, Alberto off, Moonen off. They’re furious. They want to finish the job, but we have Juventus away next week. Plan ahead and be prepared. They don’t care, they live for the game. I love them for it.

The second half is dull. Genoa resigned to defeat, us with our foot off the gas. 2-0 it finishes.

Milan draw again. We’re 9 points clear. For once the headlines will focus on football.

###

“Juve, Juve, Juventuslandia, The city expects Sunday. Juve, Juve, Juventuslandia, the city moves every Sunday.”

The Delle Alpi is a cauldron of expectancy. You can’t help but feel in awe. The Old Lady with old values. Stuck in their ways. Bitter and past it. They hate me. They hate me, not for who I am, but for what I represent. The new era of Italian football. Yes, they are the Old Lady, we are the New Lady.

The hollow, retractable tunnel leading to the pitch rumbles like thunder. Rain isn’t causing the noise. Spit, coins, jewellery, whatever they can find, raining down on the tunnel, welcoming us to hell.

Daniele, beside me, stares straight ahead, his eyes dead, ready for war. I look back down the tunnel. One by one, I look into their eyes. I don’t need to say a word, they know what they are here for. Our welcome was our encouragement. I lead them forward, out of the tunnel, the noise increases. Hate, pure hate. The missiles fall around us and we march forward, we don’t flinch. We don’t give them what they want.

Guerriero gets the worst of it. I poached him from the Juve youth setup. He’d been overlooked, he’s a world beater now. They howl like wolves every time he gets the ball. Not in the 39th minute. In the 39th minute he silences them. He strikes it clean, from outside the box, it nestles in the back of the net. He sprints towards their support. They’re silent now.

Half time and they are all still focussed. Silent in the dressing room. Legs shaking. Blank expressions.

It’s the second half. We can’t break them down. The crowd are finding their voice again. 79 minutes, Martin turns in the centre circle, he flicks the ball past one and sprints onto it. A challenge comes in and bounces off him. There are two in front of him. The crowd are screaming;

“Break him!”

“Kill him.”

Martin feigns to the right, then left, then right. Their defender stumbles. It’s the yard he needs. He pulls back his right leg. He swings it through the air. The ball flys, in slow motion through the air. 60,000 inhale. The ball grapples with the back of the net and rolls to a stop. The crowd exhale. The crowd groan.

I turn. I raise my fists in triumph and I laugh. I laugh loud and clear. I look into the fans eyes now. They are filled with agony. I shake my fists in the air and laugh.

"The Old Lady!" I shout. "The frail Old Lady of Turin!"

lol at the last bit mate. I think i know who you are as well :) Is it Udinese by any chance ;P Anyways gl & kiu!

Great mate, this is professional stuff!

Juventus is mentioned at the end "The Old Lady of Turin"

Keep it up mate, wanna see where this goes!

*Not Udinese, but funny enough I did play as Udinese before taking over this side.*

###

“They’re everything I hate about football. I’ve worked night and day to make this club what they are today. To take them to the places they are today. I did it on a shoestring, my hands tied. I didn’t have someone walk in and throw money at me. I achieved it. I deserve it. This club deserves it. They don’t. They don’t deserve to grace our pitch.”

The vermin are busy scribbling.

“The relationship I have with my players, with this team, with our fans. You can’t buy that. I love them. Each and every part of what makes this club what it is.”

My voice is cracking. My emotion showing. The vermin are scribbling. Is this good. Is it bad.

“We’ll beat them and we’ll win the Champions League.”

I’m replaying it in my head as I walk towards the dressing room. 82,000 fans outside, reading it in their programmes. Listening to it on their headphones. Cheering. Chanting my name.

“I hope to god you haven’t built those lads up for a fall.” Says Mauro.

“I hope to god you’re not serious.” I reply.

“Daniele, how much did you cost?”

He looks at me, unsure.

“Nothing gaffer.”

“Alberto, how much did you cost?”

“Nothing gaffer.”

“Mattia, how much did you cost?”

“Nothing gaffer.”

“Take a good long look at these three lads.” I look round the room at the others. “And follow their lead.”

Moonen on 2, Martin on 49, Lacroix on 52. Diogo replied in the 3rd, but it was futile. 3-1 winners against the default Champions of England.

On to Eastlands for the return.

###

There I am hanging. Hanging from a rope. A rope tied to a lamppost. My neck broken. A sign draped round it reads ALCO.

“Ignore it.” Says Mauro.

I chuckle and grab his knee.

“Why would I ignore it? This is exactly what I wanted.”

“Scumbags, a bunch of effin scumbags.” Daniele is shouting at the back of the bus.

“What sort of sicko does something like that. Have you seen that gaffer? Gaffer? Have you seen that?”

I stand up.

“Now, now lads.”

I raise my glass.

“If the people of Manchester are so worried about us that they have to resort to these means, then I must be doing something right.”

“It’s a bloody doll gaffer. A doll dressed up like you. I’ll have them for it, every effin one of them.” Shouts Alberto.

A cheer goes up round the bus. The songs begin.

I sit down, I grab Mauro’s knee. I look him in the eyes and I chuckle. I drain my glass and pour another.

“Is it too early to celebrate?”

City get their win. 2-1. Goals from Fernandez and Kuzmanovic, but Waite scores an away goal after 48 to send us through 4-3.

“We were teasing them.” I tell the press. “Give them a chance and it’s all the sweeter when you take it away.”

I’m in the hotel. The lads are celebrating. I walk into the toilets. I undo my fly.

“OUT, OUT, OUT!” From the cubicle.

I run, to the door. I slip. I go slam into it. There’s no-one there. My arm begins to ache. My chest begins to tighten.

“MAURO!”

###

I’m in my office. It’s 11 days later. 3-1 wins, away to Parma and Palermo mean we’re still in the driving seat. Still 9 points clear, with five games to go. Three more wins and we’ll be Champions. My hand shakes as I tilt the bottle toward me glass. It shakes as I slowly push a cigarette towards my mouth. BANG. The door nearly comes off it’s hinges. I jump.

“Aye?”

Mauro storms in.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He says.

“What a way to welcome me back.”

“Who signed you out? Daniele? Alberto?”

“Sit down for Christ’s sake, and have a drink. I signed myself out. 11 days in hospital is enough to kill a man, and I have work to do.”

“You’re sick. You should be in hospital.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t rain on your parade, son. I’ll sit this one out. Watch it from the stands, but if you think I’m missing Chelsea, you’ve got another thing coming.”

I make my way to the stands. Heads are turning. Whispers are whispered. I take my seat beside them upstairs. They look at me open mouthed, they roll their eyes.

We’re at home to Lecce. The rumours spread. The crowd are turning. Turning and pointing. The cheer goes up and the chants begin. I stand up and raise my fists. These are my people.

Waite puts us in front on 2, Vitale cancels it on 55, Martin makes it 2-1 after 57, Antenucci cancels it on 63. Guerriero makes it 3-2 on 89. They chant my name. The players, the fans, they chant my name.

One down and two to go.

###

Eleven days that could make our season. Two wins, against Napoli and Bologna and we will be crowned Champions. Two wins against Chelsea and we’ll be in the final of the greatest cup competition in the world. For a lesser man panic would set in. For a lesser team, nerves would show. Not me. Not my lads. We’re focussed. We’re ready. We’re hungry.

The flight to London is smooth. My players laugh and joke, no mention of what might be. I sip from my glass and watch Mauro sweat.

The atmosphere stinks. 43,000 people sitting and watching. Just sitting and watching. No singing. No support. I feel sorry for this club. I feel sorry for their players.

When Erdinc puts them in front after 19, they don’t react. When Ramires is injured and carried off, they don’t react. They just sit and watch. They put their head in their hands on 38 when Guerriero equalises. It’s still silent. On 54 Martin puts us in front, but they sigh. They don’t cheer. They don’t sing. They don’t support.

“Never have I felt so sorry for a team we’re playing against.”

The vermin have their sound bite.

###

Napoli at home. Two more wins and the title is ours. The first in a long time. What the fans deserve. What my lads deserve. What I deserve.

I’m in my office. I pour a drink and I down in one. I make my way toward the door and stop by the mirror on the wall. Who is this man staring back at me? He’s old. He’s past it. He looks like death.

“OUT, OUT, OUT!”

I mouth to myself. I look towards the ground and move towards the door.

We can’t break them down. We just can’t break them down. The crowd are losing their patience. I’m beginning to crack. Wave after wave of attack is repelled by a defence of eleven.

“They’re killing the game.” Says Mauro.

“Stop making bloody excuses.” I snarl back.

I march towards the sidelines. Grimaudo launches a hopeful drive from 35 yards. It hits the post and ripples the net. The crowd go silent. My chest begins to tighten. I take a deep breath. It’s half time.

“1-0 down on home soil. What’s the matter with you?”

“It was a fluke, they are filling the box!” Says Daniele.

“I’ve heard enough excuses from Mauro, I don’t want to hear any more from you.”

They look towards their feet.

“Oh….just get out of my sight. The lot of you.”

“Gaffer…come on.”

“Go on, get out!”

They shuffle towards the door. The room empties and I sit down. I take a deep breath and rub my face.

The second half and more of the same. Wave after wave of attack is pumped back out of their box. 67 minutes and Rinaudo scythes down Waite. His studs were high, I sprint fro the bench waving my arms. It’s red. Their eleven man wall is broken.

69 and Martin equalises. 1-1, we can do this. Napoli are on the back foot. They’re being stretched now. Our passing is tiring them out. It’s 90 minutes. It’s still 1-1. The board shows four minutes of added time. We’re into the fifth. A long looping ball from the back. Head tennis in their area. It falls to Guerriero. He blasts it past their keeper.

I punch my chest and raise my fist. The fans salute me.

One done, one to go.

###

It’s the home leg against Chelsea. We’re line dup in the tunnel. A full stadium. A noise to rival any. I look back, not at my lads, at theirs. Fear is what I see. They aren’t used to this. This level of support. This level of passion is new to them. They are beaten before we even start.

Moonen on 2, Waite on 12, we’re 4-1 up and coasting. Daniele puts it into his own net on 27, but his head doesn’t drop. We have it in the bag.

“I’m proud of you.”

Half time is so easy when you’re winning.

Waite for his second on 73. Moonen for his second on 77. Campbell grabs a consolation on 79. 6-3 and through.

“There’s a time to celebrate and a time to prepare. Both will come, but not before Sunday.”

###

I wake. I shower. I shave. I pour a drink. I drink it. I drive to the stadium.

Today is the day. The offices are silent. The bus is silent. Everyone anticipating. Not nervous, prepared.

“I’ve longed for a title for so long and it started to feel like I’d never have the chance. I’m not going to pin my hopes on today, but I know it will come.”

The vermin scribble. They can’t decide what result they want. What headline reads best? Me throwing it away or winning against the odds.

Their legs are shaking. They are sat in the dressing room. Anxious. Waiting for guidance.

“There’s nothing I can say that will change what will be, but I know you. I know each and every one of you and I know you won’t let me down.”

It’s kick off. Away to Bologna. Their season is over. Nothing to play for, but the scalp of the Champions elect.

No chances at goal. It’s all too scrappy. Needless fouls given. Injuries resulting. Stuani hobbles off for them after 11, Xiadong hobble off for us after 14. It’s goalless at half time.

“Believe.”

The second half is frantic. Still scrappy. More injuries, Okada off in the 64th.

I’m pacing the sideline when he picks up the ball. 34 year old Alberto. 19 when I came to this club and ever present. His first touch takes him away from their man. He’s 25 yards out. He takes a chance. He takes his chance. 71 minutes and one hand on the title.

29 minutes of hell. 29 minutes of torture. The referee blows and I fall to my knees. My face in my hands. I sob. I’m surrounded. The players lift me and shake me. I hug them. I kiss them. My chest begins to tighten. I cough and cough and cough.

We’re in the dressing room. They’re celebrating, as they should. My lads. They did it for me. They did it because of me. My arm aches.

Mauro walks in.

“They’re ready for us.” He says.

“Let’s go get our trophy boys.” Screams Daniele.

They pull me up. I smile. This is their day too.

We walk down the tunnel. We’re told to wait. The announcer begins. I start to climb the steps. I trip. My arm aches. My chest tightens. My vision blurs. There’s confusion around me. Mauro screams, but I can’t hear him.

Got to be roma then :P!! GL & KIU!!

La Gazetta Dello Sport

Tributes from players, fans and fellow managers have been paid to a man who captured the imagination of football fans around the world today, after the sudden death of Massimo Maglianteli.

It is believed Mr Maglianteli died of organ failure in the build up to the Serie A trophy presentation for his Roma team, after their weekend game against Bologna. Maglianteli had been with Roma for 15 years, in various capacities and was seen by many as the face of the Giallorossi, but his death has united the football world.

It has long been rumoured that Maglianteli had battled a severe alcohol addiction since the death of his wife, Adriana, 15 months ago.

Roma veteran Daniele De Rossi released a statement on behalf of the first team.

“We are all shocked and saddened by the events of the last 24 hours. To win a title and lose a friend in such a short space of time is hard to take. I’ve spent my entire career with Roma, 15 years with Massimo and i’d come to regard him as a second father.

We will never forget him, he was my hero. A true local hero.”

The End

Well that's that, it's a short story, of sorts, that I wrote some time agao on the SI Forums, under the name Elrithral. Thankyou to everyone who passed comment, i'm glad you enjoyed it and hope everyone who reads it, enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

That was a superb story mate.

You should write some more, that was just outstanding.

Got it right in the end :D!! GET IN!! ANyways mate a great story there though a shame that it was so short :( anyway nice one hope to see more!!

Thankyou chaps, I have more, you shouldn't encourage me They are longer, but I do prefer short stories tbh. It's a shame about the lack of break between posts, as my other stories are very long, my current project is one seaosn old and 20,000 words long!

I started reading earlier then came back to it.

Fantastic story mate, hope to see you write more.

Just read this through now, it's very good mate.

You should write some more mate ;)

Great story there, hopefully will be seeing some more of your stuff very soon!