“I’m sorry, who is this?” I laughed, glancing around for Jeremy Beadle and then remembering…mourning…bearing that familiar pang of sadness at his loss.
“My name is Thomas Zacher. I am the chairman of Heidenheim. I have a business proposition for you.”
“Heidi Heim?” I burbled. “Is that a fashion label? What do you want with me?”
“We are not a fashion label, Herr Macintosh. We are a football club. A football club that needs your help.”
“Ah, right,” I said quickly. “I get your drift. Well listen, I don’t write for free, not since that thing with ‘The Locker Room’. If I’m going to get savaged by the press, I want some decent money first. Or cuddles, you can pay me in cuddles. I can do your player interviews for £50 a throw, columns are double and if I’m ghosting the manager’s foreword, I need his notes typed and sent to me 24 hours before deadline.”
“You misunderstand, Herr Macintosh. I don’t want you to write about the club. I want you to manage the club.”
“Manage which bit?”
“The team. I want you to manage my team.”
“I’m not with you.”
“Be the manager, Herr Macintosh.”
“Eh?”
“Sit in the dug-out, pick the team, make the funny hand signals that look like you’re trying to push an invisible block of ice across a table. Coach my team. Lead them to glory. Take us from the third flight to the promised land of the Bundesliga. Take our dreams, feather their wings and release them into the sunset. Do you understand?”
“No.”
“Look, I’ll pay you two thousand of your English pounds a week to be a football manager. Get a taxi, go to the airport, fly to Germany and we‘ll give you a tracksuit with ‘IM‘ on it.”
“You want me to be the manager?”
“Ja.”
“I’ve got one question.”
“Ja?”
“Did you really like Football Fables?”
PT.2
The ball sailed silently over the back of the stands and away, lost forever in a maze of winding streets.
“Alex?” I called to my only coach. “Can you get another bag of balls, mate?” I glared at Dieter Jarosch, the guilty culprit. Again. “That’s four you’ve lost now, Dieter,” I bellowed, holding up my fingers just in case he didn’t understand. “Four! Do you think we’re made of money? I’m supposed to be building a Bundesliga team here, not overseeing the delivery of a €20 football to every f***ing child in the surrounding area. Keep the f***ing thing down!”
Dieter Jarosch scratched his bottom and stared at the floor. I’d been told that the big 28-year-old had scored goals for fun back in the amateur leagues, but for the life of me I couldn’t fathom how. He was like Ian Ormondroyd, but without the former Aston Villa striker’s natural grace and poise.
Alex emerged from the tunnel, dragging a sack of balls behind him like a particularly sporty Santa. He hauled one out, gave it a perfunctory squeeze, and then booted it onto the pitch.
“They are doing well!” he grinned as he took his place next to me on the bench.
“Which team?” I asked. Alex had arranged an early practice game between the seniors and the youths and, at that moment, still goalless, it was hard to tell which team was which. I wouldn’t mind, but the eldest youth player was 15. They should have been out trying to buy fags and cider, not holding their own against a team of professional footballers. I watched helplessly as Bernd Maier, my captain and a veteran of the regional leagues, tried to play a simple pass to Turkish striker Faruk Gul, missing him by about six yards.
I groaned and began to repeatedly bounce my head off the side of the dug-out.
“Ha! Come on,” laughed Alex. “It is not that bad. At least they are trying to pass the ball. They have never done that before. Usually they just try to kick the brand name off of it. You have made them think about their game.”
I looked up, just as Marc Schnatterer chased a loose ball off the pitch, slowing down too late to avoid the advertising hoardings.
“They’ve not exactly got to think about much, Alex,” I said as Schnatterer screamed and vanished into the first row of seats with a crash. “It’s 4–4–2, I’ve told them to keep it simple, pass it short, man-to-man mark and just go out and enjoy themselves.
“Exactly,” said Alex. “You know, for an English manager, you are very forward-thinking.”
“I’m not a manager though,” I groaned. “I’m a journalist. I should be up in that press box, eating my own body weight in sausages, stopping only to spell someone’s name wrong. I should be unleashing another ill-considered opinion that only popped in to my head while I was on the loo this morning. I should be desperately trying to crowbar references to current affairs into my opening paragraph or covering up my ignorance by basing all my stories on the suggestions of vague ‘sources’. That’s my football pitch, Alex. That’s where I earn my money. I can‘t do this!”
“Yes, you can!” Alex snapped and he slapped me hard in the face with the back of his hand, as if I were a puppy who had urinated in his slippers. My cheek flushed bright red and the tears came quickly. Alex turned away in disgust.
Back on the pitch, Christian Gmuder slammed a snapshot past youth goalkeeper Uwe Proll, a ginger-headed child who was yet to embark upon his first shave. Bernd Maier roared in delight. I just sat quietly, biting my lip.
“I am sorry,” said Alex, staring at the floor. “I will understand if you want to dismiss me.”
“I’m not going to dismiss you, Alex,” I said as I tried to rub some life back into my cheek. The skin glowed like the light on a strip club door. Alexander Raaf was a powerful bastard, built like a gorilla with hands like snow shovels. Just 35, he’d been with Heidenheim for years, a failure as a player, but an inspiration from the sidelines. He wasn’t a tactical genius or a master of technique, he was a motivator and the kids loved him as much as they feared him.
“You should dismiss me,” he mumbled. “I should not have struck you.”
“No,” I shook my head. “You shouldn’t. But I needed telling. I just don’t know where to start with this lot. They make Southend United look the 1982 Brazilian World Cup squad. They’ll pass kidney stones before they pass the ball with any accuracy.”
“Can I ask you a question, Iain?” Alex said, turning to face me.
“Of course.”
“Did you know where to start when you wrote Football Fables?”
“You’ve read Football Fables?”
“Of course, I have. Everyone has. It is my son’s favourite. He makes me read it to him every night.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” said Alex with a solemn nod. “He particularly likes the double chapter on Brian Clough, where Tony Woodcock and Viv Anderson recount their favourite memories of the man we all knew as ‘Old Big ‘Ead’. Myself, I would rather read Chopper Harris’ chilling recollection of the 1970 FA Cup final, but you know how kids are. Demanding.”
“I see.”
“But did you know where to start, Iain?”
“No,” I admitted. “I don’t suppose I did. When you set out to produce an amusing and accessible collection of anecdotes from some of football’s most enduring characters, it can be daunting. I felt like Columbus aboard the Santa Maria, heading out across the Atlantic, not knowing whether I would ever see land again.”
“Of course you did,” smiled Alex. “But you did see land again. You wrote Football Fables, you brought those characters together and you told their stories. You gave my son, and so many people’s sons, a priceless gift. And you can do this.”
“Can I? Can I really?”
“Yes,” smiled Alex. “Of course you can. And I‘ll be here to help you.”
The big German extended his hand. I took it in my own. It felt like chain mail.
“We can do it, Alex. We’ve got three friendlies to kick them into shape and then the season starts. It’s a big ask, but if we work together, there’s nothing we
can’t achieve.”
There was a dull thump and a collective groan from the pitch.
“DIETER! That’s five now, you gormless erection. No more new balls! You can f***ing well climb over the stand and get that one back. No I’m not f***ing joking! No! No, don’t shake your head at me, you lumbering fanny. Get out!”
Alex smiled. “See?” he said. “This is why we wanted an English manager.”
PT.3
Das Football Boots – Aired July 20, 2009 – 1830:00 CET
THIS IS A RUSH TRANSCRIPT. THIS COPY MAY NOT BE IN ITS FINAL FORM AND MAY BE UPDATED.
ANCHOR – …and was eventually apprehended in the ladies lavatory of a restaurant in Gross-Rohrheim. More on the Bundesliga later, but first let’s take a trip to the backwaters of the Third Division to catch up with newly promoted Heidenheim. Lothar Gerber travelled to Bavaria to examine the curious case of an English writer turned German football manager.
VT – Anonymous looking footballers in white shirts pass the ball to each other in front of a sparse crowd in a small stadium.
VOICEOVER – 1. Fußballclub Heidenheim 1846. Minnows in a fishtank full of barracuda. Hungry barracuda. You know, the kind of hungry, angry barracuda who, if they were asked to list their favourite food would say ‘minnows’ without even hesitating or giving a second thought to ice cream or sausages or anything. Heidenheim are crap. But they’re here. Here in the Third Division. Without a hope of sticking around, surely?
VT – A skinny man in a grey suit shakes hands with a wizened old man as a handful of flash bulbs go off in front of them. He leans over a desk and puts pen to paper
VOICEOVER – Enter Iain Macintosh. You know him as the author of Football Fables, the book that Jurgen Klinsmann once claimed was, “as important as Crime and Punishment.”. Well, now he’s the manager of Heidenheim. He has no experience, no command of the German language and, if you believe the papers, no chance of keeping his team in the Third Division.
IAIN MACINTOSH (sat in a restaurant, a glass of red wine on table) – Bobbins. We’ve got every chance of staying up.
LOTHAR GERBER – You’re a long way from the Stamford Bridge press box though, surely this is going to be quite a challenge?
IM – Of course it will be a challenge, but I’m ready for it. And I tell you, the Stamford Bridge press box is no walk in the park. It’s a bloody minefield. Garth Crooks asked me where the toilet was once. It took him 20 minutes. I nearly missed the last tube.
LG – But how can a writer with no coaching credentials hope to succeed as a manager?
IM – I know football, Lothar, and I know what it takes to win. I’ve seen a few managers come and go and I doubt that I’m worse than all of them. I mean, come on. Avram Grant? Saw him crap himself at White Hart Lane once, lost a 3–1 lead, was lucky to get out with a 4–4 draw. Started throwing defenders on willy-nilly, it was extraordinary. Anyway, my philosophy is simple. Pass the ball, cherish it. Keep it guarded and don’t let anyone else have it. Start from that point and you’ll be fine.
LG – But what about tactics, set-pieces, that kind of thing?
IM – Yes.
LG – Yes what?
IM – Yes, we do them too.
LG – How do you do them?
Silence
LG – Iain?
IM – I haven’t decided yet.
LG – Well, what have you been doing in the friendlies?
IM – I … erm … Well, I … erm … left it to the lads. Keep it simple, know what I mean?
LG – You forgot, didn’t you?
IM – Yes. Yes, I did.
LG – Let’s move on. Transfers. You’ve signed a lot of players in a short space of time. Why all the reinforcements?
IM – I had to, Lothar. I’ll be honest, half the players there are worse than you, and you’re a fat lad. I’ve transfer listed 11 of them, but I can’t find anyone daft enough to take them off my hands. Alexander Raaf, my coach, he had a few ideas, so we took a load of lads on trial and tested them out. Christian Lenze, an experienced midfielder from the lower leagues. He can actually pass a ball, so he might not fit in here. Rachid El Hammouchi, he’ll give us some pace on the flanks. Clement Halet, the French lad, he’s way too good for us, but he’ll do until someone good notices that he’s batting below his average. Then there’s the youngster Zlatan Alomerovic. I can’t believe Dortmund let him go.
LG – Is there anyone you didn’t sign after a trial?
IM – Yeah. Tezcan Kerabulet.
LG – Not good enough?
IM – Oh no, he was a fine player. Just a bit odd.
LG – How so?
IM – Starts fires.
LG – I see. So, were you pleased with the friendlies?
IM – Very pleased. We did very well. Very impressive.
LG – You didn’t win any, did you?
IM – No. Not as such.
LG – Apart from a game behind closed doors. Against a team of 14-year-olds. You won that by a single goal. Late on.
IM – You can only beat what’s in front of you, Lothar.
LG – Iain, can I be frank?
IM – Of course.
LG – Is this just a publicity stunt?
IM – Absolutely not. This is real. This is my new life now. I promise you that when we take to the field against Unterhaching this weekend, we’ll be the best prepared team in all of Germany.
LG – You’re not playing Unterhaching this weekend.
IM – I beg your pardon?
LG – You’re playing Erfut.
IM – Yes, that’s what I said.
LG – No, it wasn’t.
IM – Yes it was, check your tape. Erput. That’s who we’ve got.
LG – Erfut.
IM – Yes.
LG – Iain, why did Thomas Zacher hire you?
IM – I have no idea. He just said that he really liked Football Fables.
LG – Fair play. It’s a f***ing great read, that.
FADEOUT
PT.4
“Iain? Iain, are you in here?” Alex walked along the line of toilet cubicles, slapping his baking tray sized palms against every door until he found the one that was locked. My one. “Iain?”
“I’m not coming out.” I whispered. “I don’t want to.”
“Come on, Iain. The press are becoming restless. You must speak to them. They have eaten all of the biscuits, soon they will anger.”
“You speak to them.”
“I am not going to speak to them. That is not my job. I put cones out. It is a good job.”
“You’re still angry about Alfred, aren’t you?”
“Not at all,” Alex said, slightly too quickly. “You needed an assistant manager. There is no reason why you should not have taken one. My feelings are not important.”
“I’m not coming out, Alex.”
“You must. Things are never as bad as they seem.”
“Not as bad as they seem?! We lost 5-0! Erfut took us out on to the pitch, pulled our trousers and pants down and spanked us in front of everyone!”
“We dominated possession,” said Alex thoughtfully. “That was one of your aims.”
“Yes, but the other aim was not to ship five f***ing goals. The first one, what the hell was Tim Gohlert doing? He just stood there scratching his balls. Florian Krebs did the same for the second one. What did we tell them? Fight for everything! They didn’t fight for s**t!”
“But we enjoyed the better of the second half.”
“For 25 minutes!”
“That is the better of the second half.”
“Not when they score three goals in the other 20!”
“Calm yourself. The season is long. We have time to regroup. Come out and do the press conference.”
I slid the lock across and allowed the door to swing open. Alex peered into the gloom and then swiftly recoiled.
“You have … erm … you have vomit on your shirt,” he said.
“Yes, I know.�
�
“And your trousers.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And … how did you get it in your shoes?”
“I don’t know, Alex.”
He stepped into the cubicle and hauled me off the seat like a child.
“Come on, Gaffer. That is what they say in England, is it not? Gaffer? Clean yourself.”
He dragged me to the sink and turned on the taps. I stooped down and threw cold water over myself before trying to shake the heavier chunks of sick off my collar. They landed on the floor with a series of dull, wet slaps.
“I tried to shake things up,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I went 4-3-3 with the full-backs pushing all the way. I really thought that would work.”
“It did work, for a time,” said Alex, staring at the floor in horror.
“Then they figured it out. Then they started lumping everything down the wings. If we’d just have taken one of our chances it could all have been so different.” I straightened up and looked Alex directly in the eye. “Tell me, is Dieter Jarosh actually a footballer? Is he? Or is he just a bloke who sneaked in one morning and has been here for so long that everyone’s got used to him?”
“He used to score many goals,” Alex said.
“Well, he’s not scoring them now. He’s out. And Patrick Mayer too, the blundering tit-bag.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Alex.
“I don’t know,” I said, drying myself down with toilet roll. “But I’ve got to do something. Where are the players?”
“They went home. They do not like to be shouted at. Andreas Spann actually cried when you called him those names. Tell me, what exactly is a ‘thundering turd-burger’?”
“I’m not entirely sure. I guess I lost the plot a bit.”
“Lost the plot,” said Alex thoughtfully, turning the phrase over in his mind. “Yes. Yes, I think you did. You lost the plot, the narrative and the character development. You were halfway through telling Erol Sabanov that he was a butter-fingered w***-bot sent from the future to royally f**k our lives up the nipsy and then boom! All that sick came out of your nose. I was most surprised.”
Football Manager Stole My Life Page 17