Training

In the wake of John’s comments in the press conference he’d been all over the newspapers and the talk of the town. There was always interest in a new manager but this was something else, the armchair pundits couldn’t decide whether John was simply optimistic or somewhat delusional. All in all they were going to have to wait for the first game of the season before they could start to draw any conclusions.

Not that John was the kind to buy into speculation or what people said about him. He was on his way to his first training session with the team. He cruised in his car through the Swindon countryside to the secluded training ground. Sitting in the passenger seat was John’s assistant manager Dave Mustaine; he was sorting the player profiles.

The first thing John had asked his assistant to do was to prepare a comprehensive report and profile on each member of the team. John had looked through them in reasonable depth; the team certainly had its weaknesses but if the reports were anything to go by the team had a number of strengths. Of course it was impossible to derive any conclusions having not seen the team play. The team had a pre-arranged friendly next week against Chorzów. It would be a good opportunity to assess the team.

John pulled into a parking space outside the training facilities. They were quite good for a team of Swindon’s calibre. There were naturally changing rooms but also an indoor football court and a gym room. As John passed through the building he looked around him at the modest trophy cabinet.  He emerged on a balcony on the far side of the building, looking down over the training pitch where the players were already there messing about passing the balls and testing the keeper with a few shots.

John decided to take a moment to watch the players and ask a few questions of Dave.

“Could you pass a few of those profiles Dave?”

Dave obliged and picked out a few of the profiles. John flicked through them, trying to match them to their on-field correspondents. The first player who caught John’s eye was a tall bald man with a thick moustache; he was nonchalantly strolling around the pitch returning any passes which came to him. As John was about to look away, this man received a pass into his feet at the edge of the box, teed it up and fired it hard and low into bottom corner leaving the keeper no chance. John looked into a profile. So this was the infamous “bald John Green”, the profile didn’t skimp on praise ‘athletic player, hardworking, never afraid to get back and help the midfield, finishes ten times out of ten’. Praise indeed.  

John straightened his coat and took the stairs which led down from the balcony to the pitch. He rooted in his pocket for his whistle. He didn’t need to blow it though because before he had a chance bald John Green turned and shouted “Everyone in!” Everyone came in, no exceptions.  John gave a nod of approval to bald John Green. The squad of roughly twenty gathered around John in a semicircle. “Thank you, as you all know I’m John Green, I’m going to be manager, but enough with the clichéd pleasantries. Lads, the losing ends here, no more with losing three, four to nil, football is game of hard work and determination, and we can show that we can mix it with the big boys. Anyone who doesn’t believe we can win this league should leave now.” No one left. A few shuffled on their feet.  A few nodded in agreement. John looked around at his players. He saw the coaches were making their way onto the pitch. He spoke again. “Everyone will get their chance to prove themselves on this team. I don’t want us to continue playing this defensive boring football we’ve been playing all year. I believe we have the players to play an attractive attacking style. This afternoon we going to have a tactical meeting but now give me five laps of the pitch.”

The team all lined up behind bald John Green and started into their laps. John wandered around the centre circle and looked through his player reports. Chorzów next week. As the tubby goalkeeper fell over his own feet and tumbled to the ground, John couldn’t help but wonder if he was setting his sights too high.

We introduce Mr. Green

Lights flashed in all directions and an excited chatter filled the room. John was taken by the arm and brought into the room where he took his seat in front of the giddy press. He couldn’t help but feel a certain intimidation. He hadn’t been to England before but he was quickly realising that even in the lower leagues football was serious business here. Almost twenty journalists and many more associated individuals were in attendance.

The elderly man in the seat beside John stood up and a hush descended over the room. He waited. “I’m delighted to be able to have you all here today to introduce Mr. John Green to you. We’ll be more than happy to answer any questions you have.” A flurry of hands flew up and the man picked one out.

A thin, greasy looking man stood up quickly, drawing a pen and pad from his pocket. Fumbling with this, he looked up and asked “Mister Green, you’ve had reasonable success across the pond with the Indiana State Llamas, winning the College championship, do you feel you’ve done enough to earn the manager’s job at Swindon Town Swoodilypoopers?”

Tough crowd. John swallowed and thought for a moment. Not because he needed to though, football is a psychological game and John needed to make an impression. He wanted to display himself as a contemplative, level headed tactician. He sat back in his chair.

“I’m here because of what I’ve achieved and what people believe I can achieve.”

The greasy man sat back down, a little disappointed with the answer. And so it continued like this for some time, journalists asking clichéd questions and John giving cryptic answers.

 Another journalist was chosen “The Swoodilypoopers, a former Premier League side have been on a steadily downhill trend over recent years with many bookies placing them amongst the scrap for survival in League 1, do you feel you can do anything but fight bravely against relegation? The line-up seems uninspired and going nowhere, what’s the long term plan?

John sat back in his chair for a moment. Maybe this would be a mistake. But he believed in himself and believed in human nature. Football is a game of hard work, determination and belief. Anything is possible with the right attitude. John stood up for emphasis and before he walked out he said in a low encapsulating voice.

“In three years we can be playing in the Premier League.”

Silence fell on the room. On the floor, someone thought about laughing.

Prologue

The light that hung from the ceiling flickered and the weary eyed man beneath it looked up. A car passed outside and broke the silence that was filling the room. It was one of those moments that could have lasted forever if he’d let it. No one likes to have to make a decision, no one sensible at least. John Green was sensible. He spun gently in his chair.

A knock came at the door. John looked. People didn’t stay this late, except himself of course. The handle turned and a tall bald man entered the room. Rather his moustache entered, the rest of him seemed to follow. John gazed at this man, coincidentally also named John Green but affectionately referred to as “Bald John Green”.

Everyone thinks that they’ll know what to do when finally faced with a situation that they’ve been running incessantly through their head. Whether this is true or not is inconclusive, maybe if John had run this situation in his head he would have known what to do.

It had been almost two years now since John Green had been appointed manager of League 1 minnows, Swindon Town Swoodilypoopers and in that time he had built an incredible rapport with his players, not least this tall bald man.

Bald John Green looked at his manager; each knew what the other wanted to say. John stood up from behind is desk and drew a breath in before speaking.

“I don’t know what to do next.”

Bald John didn’t react, he didn’t do as much as blink, he had complete faith in his manager but the last few months had been difficult, it seemed impossible to find any solutions. John continued, “Take a seat.” It wasn’t an order, it was a request. Bald John Green took his seat and the two men stared at each other a little longer. It wasn’t an awkward silence; it was just a contemplative moment, words matter in moments like this.

Some stories need to be taken in context. This is one of those stories. Let’s rewind. This is the miracle of Swindon Town.