Inspired by the work of Iain Macintosh, and with far too much time on his hands, Simon Furnivall has ventured back into the world of Football Manager-based storytelling. Having finished last in the Red, White & Blue “One Last Game” competition, Simon has steeled himself for another shot and is here to tell the tale. This is the first of a series of Football Manager stories, which will be a regular feature of your Sunday evening. You can follow Simon on twitter @SFurnivall
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“Two-nil isn’t that bad.”
“Three-nil”
“What?”
“Three-nil, they’ve just scored again.” I gave Steve a look that left him in no doubt that being the bearer of such news made it entirely his fault. At least, that was the aim, I probably just looked like I was about to cry.
“Three-nil is pretty bad. Even against this lot.” Llanelli, in all honesty, could have had seven or eight, and my tactical masterplan of “you four defend, you six attack” didn’t seem to have paid off.
“At least we’re not bottom, boss.” I turned to look at Steve as we stepped onto the team bus for the ninety mile trip back home. “Camarthen lost four-nil to Aberystwyth.”
***
I had, mistakenly it seemed, gone into this whole adventure with the Top Gear attitude, “how hard can it be” ringing in my ears. I watched plenty of football, I’d read ‘Inverting the Pyramid‘ and I could certainly do a better job than ‘Arry Redknapp. Plus, I’d be pitted against the best that the Welsh Premier League had to offer. The Welsh. The rugby-laden, sheep-shagging stereotypes that I could throw in at this point where so abundant that they were queuing round the corner.
My first thought on seeing the ground, Maes Tegid, was that the stand looked like a shed with some folding IKEA chairs bolted to it. I was fairly certain that I’d be able to fit more people into my garden. Yet when I saw the crowd for our first home match, against Port Talbort, it suddenly looked cavernous.
“Thirty five. Thirty fucking five. I’ve counted them.” Steve Crompton hadn’t exactly promised me that the atmosphere would be electric, but I have to admit that I’d expected a distinctly bigger crowd. Perhaps if we hadn’t shipped quite so many goals in pre-season.
There was about ten of them left by the end of the match, and all seemed to be Port Talbort fans. We’d held on through the first half, a 0-0 scoreline giving us the briefest hope of grabbing a point, but a calamitous own goal had given Port Talbort the lead and a 2-0 defeat was probably about what we’d deserved.
“I’d settle for a shot on fucking target, right now. I agreed to pay Gethin two hundred quid a week because you said he was better than anything we had here.”
“He is.”
“You forgot to mention that he’s still shite!” I had sworn after watching Chris Gethin and Josh Macauley fail to find anything even approaching a shot on target in two games that both would be dropped for the trip to Haverfordwest. Injuries to Chris Mason and Ross Jefferies suggested otherwise, however, and the two who knew nothing about hitting a cow’s arse with a banjo were given another chance.
***
“Holy shit, boss. Are you OK?” I can see how Steve would have got the impression that all was not well. The blood splattered across my face and my desk may have been the first tell tale sign.
“I’m sure I will be..” THUD “…if I can just…” THUD “…make it…” THUD “…stop.” THUD.
“We were better yesterday.”
“Yes, we were.”
“We scored twice.”
“Yes, we did. But did it escape your notice that we conceded five?” My excitement at seeing us take the lead – yes, take the lead – at the Bridge Meadow Stadium had been short lived as Haverfordwest sought to punish us for such impudence.
Ten goals conceded in three games, I appeared to have taken over the worst football team in the world. I hadn’t the first clue how to change things for the better, and I didn’t have Jonathan Wilson’s phone number, so with one final bang of my head I slipped off my chair, under the desk and into blissful unconsciousness.
