by Ted Denton
He’d studied computer science at Sheffield University before taking forensic accountancy as a vocational option to satisfy his father, coupled with modules in sports science and investigative journalism to sate his own wider interests. He lived at home to save money in line with parental advice, rather than studying further afield, stifling any possible claim to genuine independence. Only two of his classmates who came through comprehensive school with him had secured a coveted place in higher education. It wasn’t hard to envy their shared flat, succession of drunken escapades and tales of daring-do documented through an endless stream of Facebook boasts and Instagram updates. Still, surviving his parents and keeping sane for twenty-one years was, he considered, an epic achievement in itself, albeit one that might not generate as much attention from girls on social media. Daniel had been blessed with an overprotective mother who was beset with an unending stream of premonitions and predictions which appeared to be gathering urgency and momentum daily, whose genesis no one could quite identify; and a down-to-earth, no-nonsense father whose life mission was to preserve as much money as possible for some future, but as yet unspecified, purpose. This was coupled with a near-paralysing fear of the repercussions of any form of law breaking, however moderate they may be. On one occasion, the curtains had been kept drawn and the milk left on the doorstep for a week to maintain the pretence that the family were abroad, having returned to the car some six minutes after their parking ticket had expired, albeit unnoticed. Despite his cruel caricatures, Daniel knew they were good people. Good ordinary people who wanted the best for their only child. Irrespective, it was suffocating and depressing to have his entire life bleakly sketched out far in front of him. Being forced to share his parents’ lives was a slow and torturous death. In his mind he knew he was destined for more.
He had met Silvio working at the publishing business. A portly, permanently tanned, silver haired gentleman of Italian heritage with a predilection for snugly fitting waistcoats, brown buckled brogues, and long, indulgent lunches. He didn’t work for the company, happening instead to rent a desk there in order to conduct his own business, the mainstay of which was to sell sports content for media consumption across books, magazines, television, and online. He came and went as he pleased with an easy smile and never concerned himself, it seemed, with the bitter undercurrent of resentment emanating from the morose publishing staff whose building he shared. He’d noticed Daniel busying himself around the office and, when the boy had shown a keen interest in some of the sports content across his desk, he had decided to indulge him. When the deal came together, it all happened so fast. Silvio had contacts in golf, an opportunity on the European Tour, and a tie-up with an American sports agency to cement. They had some talented up-and-coming southern hemisphere players currently living in London. There was no one to manage them in Europe as they weren’t yet ready to progress to the US PGA Tour, typically considered the hardest to win playing privileges upon. In order to secure the gig, the plan was that Silvio would create the illusion of having a ready-made team. Daniel could be moulded quickly to fit that remit and no one at the American sports agency would be any the wiser. They had already worked with Silvio and he had the solution they needed. Daniel got an exciting opportunity he would grab with both hands. Everyone wins.
Five short weeks and a crash course in the beautiful intricacies of professional golf later, here he was. Like most boys, he supposed, Daniel had enjoyed games at school above academic lessons. He was a naturally gifted sportsman, tall, rangy and athletic with good hand-eye co-ordination. In preparation of the new career, he’d hacked a golf ball round the local pitch and putt track to half decent affect, heralding his father’s advice and foregoing the unnecessary expense of a single lesson.
Now he stood in the washroom of the Bayfield Mandarin Hotel in the Valencia region of southeastern Spain at the start of a prestigious European Tour event. He needed to front up and blend in to take this opportunity. Play it cool and make it happen. Would anyone spot that he just didn’t belong, he wondered. Daniel Ratchet, Player Manager to some of the hottest young guns competing to win this week’s European Tour event, who feels like everyone is looking at him as if he stands out a blinking mile. Who got lucky by meeting an old man in the right place at the right time. Daniel Ratchet, with just one chance to make it work. No turning back.
The door to the washroom swung open. Two swarthy middle-aged guys filed in wearing well-filled matching white polo shirts, navy shorts and long white socks pulled up to the knees. They chatted animatedly in Spanish. Daniel, no longer alone with his thoughts, nodded a greeting, dried his hands, and exited back out into the hotel. The place was a hive of activity, buzzing with glamorous, well-dressed, sun-kissed people. Players, denoted by their heavily logoed caps, crowded around a free-standing noticeboard. An olive-skinned girl in a crisply pressed uniform stood next to it answering questions. A large antique desk stood dominating the space behind which an unsmiling leather-skinned matron in her mid-fifties sat brusquely addressing the impatient queue of players. Notes were being entered into a large binder. A streaky blonde ponytail was scraped tightly back from her forehead exposing deeply etched lines worn into the strong, features of a handsome Germanic face which would not be bowed by age. The scene depicted the epitome of no-nonsense, diligent efficiency.
Daniel joined the back of the throng and studied the noticeboard. The pairings for first round of the event were listed sequentially by tee-off time. These were strict minute-by-minute timings that could not be missed, on pain of disqualification, by even a few seconds. Daniel’s role as Player Manager was specifically to look after two young promising guys from the Crown Sports stable, Aaron and François. Australian and South African respectively. Noting the piercing stare now directed towards him from the older of the two women, presumably for loitering and obstructing the view of the board, he double checked relevant times and names, made a mental note, and retreated hastily.
Growing up as an only child, Daniel was quite used to time spent alone. He would break free of the house at any given opportunity, seeking to escape the predictable monotony of family routine by running painfully long distances. Out through the town and into the undulating countryside beyond he would go, leaving the quiet terrace and its cul-de-sac behind. What he felt now though was a different type of isolation. Surrounded by people teaming through the club house, he felt awkward, like something might stand out about the way he was dressed or that he was somehow perpetually in the way.
Silvio had warned him of course, ‘Don’t be put off when you get out on Tour. There’s a lot of what they call ‘etiquette’ in golf. It’s a game for the rich made up of endless rules. So what do you expect, eh? You can either feel part of it or not. A smart boy like you will learn soon enough and until then just keep your head down, your mouth shut, and try to look the part,’ he’d told him patting him on the shoulder. ‘People will typically assume you are what you say you are until you prove otherwise. Life on Tour is a bubble. Just a week will feel like months have passed. It’s intense and addictive and you’ll wonder at times if you can even survive it, although you’ll soon realise, my friend, that you can’t live without it.’ He’d finished the pep talk with a beaming benevolent smile.
Daniel flashed the cherished metallic Tour badge at security and entered the vast restaurant reserved for those involved in that week’s tournament. There were small clusters of players and officials gathered at the various tables. Eating. Chatting. Studying charts of the course. A few he recognised from their picture profiles in the Tour handbook, but most he did not. To the left, a gleaming wall-to-floor window looked out onto a luscious green course and imposing mountains beyond which traced the curvature of the building. The entire right hand wall of the room was pinned by long tables adorned in crisp white table cloths. They shouldered a regal spread of buffet-style platters and servers. Every style of hot and cold food Daniel could think of had been laid out in deep trays, accompanied by stacks of sparkling cr
ockery. Two moustached waiters ladled generous portions from the silver slavers. Daniel selected a small helping of rice and chicken with a bread roll. Having missed breakfast in his rush to catch the flight, and not having the stomach for a plastic-wrapped aeroplane sandwich, he could certainly have eaten more. Not an untypical situation given that growing up he was often teased for a prodigious appetite and for having hollow legs. Somehow the current situation didn’t become an overladen plate.
Daniel found an empty table in a corner and sat there, watching intently, taking everything in. People came and went. There were some obvious cliques, players of the same nationality or age grouped together. He could hear raucous laughter from a group of three South African players. A cluster of serious looking blond Nordic types, perhaps Swedes or Danes, played with their food and spoke in deep tones about their practice rounds and the current challenges in their game. In an attempt to look pre-occupied, Daniel took out a card of the course and toyed with memorising the layout of the holes and their yardages. It made little sense. Swirls, icons, and tiny numbers peppered the pocket-sized chart. He tried to glean what he could. Although more pertinent material for the players than their agents and particularly more so for the caddies, he needed something convincing he could regurgitate at the appropriate moment in conversation which would otherwise expose him as a total golf-fraud. There was so much to all this. He was way out of his depth and drowning fast.
‘Mind if we sit here?’
Daniel looked up into the friendly brown eyes of a heavily muscled, sandy-haired German man in a tight-fitting polo shirt which looked as if it had been painted on.
‘No, please. Be my guest. Er… I’m Daniel,’ he said, adding quickly, ‘from Crown Sports.’ Part introduction, part explanation.
‘Hi Daniel,’ came a cheerful voice from behind the broad shoulders of the German. ‘This is Michael and I’m Matilda.’ A slender, smiling vision in white T-shirt and tailored blue shorts. She placed a bowl of salad onto the table in front of her, followed by two-toned, bronzed legs slipped under it. They looked like the perfect couple. A vibrant advertisement for the human race itself, or least an endorsement for some high-end luxury Swiss spa. He pictured them eating muesli together at sunrise whilst practicing complex yoga moves.
Glad of the enforced company and conscious that he stood out being the only person eating alone, Daniel pushed his course chart aside and began to engage the pair.
‘Busy week, isn’t it?’
‘Mmm, yes,’ Michael replied between mouthfuls of a thick slab of bloodied steak that Daniel eyed with pangs of envy. ‘For us always busy. Lots of the guys need fixing up in the truck.’
‘The truck?’ Daniel replied carefully, not wanting to show himself up so soon.
‘Yes the physio truck— we’re the treatment team— don’t tell me you’re the only one who hasn’t used us yet?’ giggled Matilda in a gentle Swedish accent.
‘Ah right, I’m new out here actually,’ blustered Daniel by way of apology, ‘but I’m sure my guys have worked with you before. Do you happen to know Aaron Crower and François Steine?’
‘Of course!’ Matilda shot a glance at Michael and leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Aaron is a perfectionist who likes to be pampered. He uses his maximum quota of stretching and massages before and after every round. I guess François sees using the truck as a sign of weakness or something. He could slip a disc out there and would still rather soldier on than get any help.’
Michael flashed a knowing smile, looked down at the table and shook his head.
‘We work together to get to know all the guys’ exact training routines, areas of the body prone to weakness, and everything required to get them ticking like clockwork. Each player is very different,’ said the German.
‘You must have great memories. That’s a lot to keep on top of,’ keened Daniel, set on making a positive impression.
Michael pulled out a slim white USB memory stick from his pocket and tapped it against the side of his head. ‘Yeah. Great memory, us Germans,’ he grinned. ‘I keep everything on this. All the bio-stats on every player you could want. I keep it with me everywhere, it just plugs straight into any device, even a smartphone, and you are good to go. So, I don’t need to be so smart myself you see.’
Daniel felt foolish again but then Michael was smiling at him good naturedly and, before he had time to change the subject, a French player with heavy stubble and a slightly disgusted look on his face tapped the German physio on the shoulder. Explaining that he had an early tee time in the morning he insisted that he be slotted in for urgent treatment to fix a tightening in his calf muscle. Michael looked first at Matilda and then at Daniel with raised eyebrows before pushing his plate of half-eaten steak out in front of him, easing his massive frame up out of the chair. Holding an arm out in front magnanimously, he invited the Frenchman to lead the way from the restaurant, longingly staring over his shoulder at the uneaten food with a comic look of exasperation.
‘Is that always how it is?’ Daniel asked. Matilda smiled. An open and easy smile. Daniel was suddenly aware of how beautiful she was. ‘It’s how it always is with Michael. He can’t do enough for the players and they take advantage, you know?’
‘And what about you?’ Daniel retorted, a smile playing around his lips.
‘No one takes advantage of me, I can quite assure you,’ she replied, her perfectly manicured blonde eyebrows arched above a challenging blue-eyed stare.
‘Oh that’s not actually what I meant at all. Sorry, it’s just that, well, are you as dedicated to the job as Michael is? You must work together closely as a team I suppose. I bet it’s hard work with so many guys on Tour and a new event every week?’
‘I can assure you that there’s no choice but having to work closely when you spend all day together in a sixty foot truck crammed with all our equipment. We even have to share the same email address, so no escape—even in cyber space! But, hey, you get used to it. The Tour is my life and Michael is a sweetheart. Guess what? I finally realised my ambition to travel to Russia and spend six years studying business at the famous Stockholm School of Economics in St. Petersburg only to end up with no job and heavy bills to pay thanks to the global recession. I was lucky to get the job here and now I don’t know anything else I suppose.’ She paused before checking herself. She turned a piece of crispy salad over with her fork and continued playfully. ‘And you? You must be one of these hot shot player agents then, Daniel.’
Another challenge. She speared a crouton and crunched it between pearly white teeth. It clearly amused her to see how easy it was to put her new acquaintance on the back foot.
He felt himself flush, first with embarrassment, perhaps with a little pride, at the reference to his new job. He looked awkwardly at his plate of uneaten and rapidly cooling chicken and rice. ‘I’d hardly say that. I don’t even feel like I know what I’m doing most of the time.’
And then their eyes met. Matilda snorted in surprise. ‘Well now that makes a change! Usually you know-it-all agents out here are all the same: full of testosterone, confidence and swagger. It’s quite sweet to hear you asking for help.’
‘Thanks, I think,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m not sure I was asking for help though, was I?’
‘It’s quite okay, Mr Hotshot,’ she replied, reaching forward from across the table and displaying an elegantly presented diamond on the ring finger of her left hand as she gently squeezed his. ‘I’m sure we can make sure that you don’t get too lost out here.’ Again, that sweet infectious giggle.
And with that, her salad barely touched and the conversation apparently over, she eased out of her chair. Daniel watched the gentle roll of her hips as she glided smoothly through the maze of tables out of the restaurant. It was several moments after she had left that he finally felt himself exhale.
Chapter 3
ENGLAND. LONDON. WHITEHALL.
‘Your meeting with Boris Golich is scheduled for 4 p.m, sir,’ a stiff young man announced in an impec
cable rendition of the Queen’s English. The grey haired civil servant, encased in perfectly creased dark pinstripe, sat deep in thought. The small, yet smartly presented, office sat just off the corner of Whitehall. He barely acknowledged the aide as he was presented with a bulky folder. ‘Everything you require to know about the co-funded gas exploration deal is within, sir. Please do not hesitate to enquire if there is anything further I can assist with.’
The phone on his desk rang and, after watching it rattle in its cradle for a little longer than was polite, Derek Hemmings, who had been staring wistfully out of his rain-streaked window, moved hesitantly toward it, took a deep breath and answered. It was the call that he had been dreading since arriving that morning at the refined environs of the Foreign Office. Andy Bartholomew was on the line. Derek’s senior counterpart at the Department of Trade and Industry was a short, balding, pugnacious Scot whose name was pronounced in the manner in which one might clear unwanted phlegm from the back of one’s throat.
‘Right, the pressure’s really on this time, Hemmings,’ he snorted. ‘We can’t afford another fuck up on the seismic scale of the Rio Tinto deal. There are seven thousand British jobs on the hook for this gas operation in the Falklands. Boris Golich’s Rublex Corporation is co-funding the operation and will be piping gas into Europe with a big fat BP badge on it. And in case you missed that, old man, the B in BP stands for British.’