Football Manager Stole My Life

by Iain Macintosh

  “You and me both. Where are these journalists?”

  Alex pointed to the door.

  “Out of the changing room, down the corridor and through the second door on the left. They’re waiting for you. Here, take these.” He handed me a pack of Garibaldi biscuits. “Sometimes it’s the only thing that soothes them.”

  “Well,” I announced looking myself up and down in the mirror. “Let’s give them something to write about.”

  “Be careful, Gaffer,” said Alex. “Remember that it is a long season.”

  “It won’t be for me, Alex,” I said, reaching for the door. “If I don’t start winning games soon, it‘ll be a very short season indeed.”

  PT.5

  Das Football Boots – Aired July 28, 2009 – 22:00 CET

  THIS IS A RUSH TRANSCRIPT. THIS COPY MAY NOT BE IN ITS FINAL FORM AND MAY BE UPDATED.

  ANCHOR – …but he later realised, to his horror, that the cream was supposed to be applied externally. More on that later, but now to Lothar Gerber, who returned to Heidenheim to see hack-turned-gaffer Iain Macintosh in his first home game of the season. Lothar caught up with him in the tunnel, but I bet he now wishes he hadn’t…

  CUT TO TUNNEL

  Lothar Gerber – Iain! Iain Macintosh! Can we have a quick word for ’Das Football Boots’?

  Iain Macintosh – Lothar! How are you, big man? Still chunky! What did you think, eh? I told you it would happen! (he kisses Lothar on the cheek)

  LG – (squirms) Yes, thank you. Stop it. Stop it! That’s better. I’m very pleased for you, but you must have been worried when Aue took the lead?

  IM – I was, because it was another sloppy goal to give away, but we’d been good up until that point. Really, really good. As good as we’ve been. Which is good. Isn’t it?

  LG – Indeed. There was a new look to the team, explain your thinking?

  IM – Well, I’d brought in Abdelaziz Ahanfouf on a free and, as you know, he used to play in the top division, so that’s a massive signing for us. I couldn’t decide who to drop out of Dieter Jarosh and Patrick Mayer, but then I remembered that they’re both absolutely gash, so I binned the pair of them. That allowed me to bring the skipper, Bernd Maier, back in and stick him between the lines to cover those clowns in the defence. He’s not quick or, you know, any good at football, but he’s experienced, influential and I thought he’d be an example to the others.

  LG – You were obviously right. And he even started the move that led to the equaliser.

  IM – He did, didn’t he? He’s clever is Maier. So is Ahanfouf, mind. That little reverse pass he played for Marc Schnatterer was so beautiful that I’d love to take it out to the pictures and then try and touch it up in the cab on the way home.

  LG – That’s a lovely image.

  IM – Thank you.

  LG – It was Christian Lenze who set up the next goal to make it 2–1, threading a ball through to that man Schnatterer again. He’s another new signing, so that must have pleased you.

  IM – It did, Lothar. When you take over a team as risible as this one, you’ve got to bring in bodies quickly. Lenze was head and shoulders above the crap that’s been clogging up the shirts here and he showed it with that ball. And another fine finish from Schnatterer as well.

  LG – Aue came back, they scored within minutes to make it 2–2.

  IM – They did, and it was another soft one. A simple ball over the top and their man is clear through. We’re going to have to look at that back line. But I don’t want to focus on that today, I want to focus on the win. It takes great big balls to put a late penalty away like that and they don’t come bigger than Faruk Gul. What nerve he showed there.

  LG – Where does this leave you?

  IM – Mid-table, I’d imagine. Played two, won one, lost one.

  LG – No, I mean, what does it do to expectations?

  IM – We have the same expectations as we always did. We’re Heidenheim. We’re the worst professional team in Germany. We’ll do our best and see what happens.

  LG – Well, if there’s any more wheeling and dealing, I’m sure you’ll be fine.

  IM – (stiffens) You what?

  LG – (stammering) Erm … I mean, you’re quite a wheeler dealer. With all the … erm … players you’ve ...

  IM – (turns to leave) Oh, f*** off.

  LG – What?

  IM – (walking away) F*** off.

  LG – Aw, come on Iain. (pleading) I didn’t mean it like that!

  IM – (turns back) Don’t call me a f***ing wheeler dealer. I’m not a f***ing wheeler dealer, I’m a f***ing football manager!

  LG – Actually, you’re a journalist, aren’t you?

  IM – Right, that’s it. I’m going to stuff that mic-

  INTERVIEW ENDS

  PT.6

  I finish my drink. I finish my fag. I get up. I walk to the window. Heidenheim. Heidenheim at night. Much the same as Heidenheim at day. But darker. Darker.

  Unterhaching. Dirty dirty Unterhaching. Hateful place. Hateful, spiteful place. Dirty. Dirty, dirty Unterhaching.

  I reflect upon another defeat. This time by a single goal. A single, lucky goal. Marcus Steegman. He’ll never score another one like that again. Not as long as he lives. Lives. Dies. Dark. Night. One win from three. Underwhelming.

  Ralph Hasenhuttl. Manager of Unterhaching. Legend of Austria Vienna. You see him in reception and you stride over to him, hand outstretched, smile on face. But he doesn’t see you. He walks straight past you. Ralph heads for his dressing room to give his teamtalk to his players. His special teamtalk with all of his special German words. Unterhaching. Dirty, dirty Unterhaching.

  Dieter Jarosh laughed at me today. He didn’t think I heard him, but I did. I hear things. He laughed when Marcus Steegman scored. Steegman scored. In. Off. The. Post. Alex leaned over and slapped him upside the head. Faithful Alex. Alexander Raaf. My friend here in Heidenheim. My only friend. My confidante. My partner. But not like that. Straight.

  Ralph Hasenhuttl. Staring at you. As if he’s never seen a man wearing trainers with a suit before. He’s obviously never been to court in Edinburgh. He peers out of his dug-out and examines you. You feel his eyes climbing up you, like ivy up a castle wall. You don’t like it. You get scared. You hide behind Alex. Some wee comes out. Dirty trousers. Dirty, dirty trousers.

  I pour another drink. I light another fag. It’s not fair. Not fair that I sit in this standard Novotel room in the business district of Heidenheim, with its single bed, its strip lighting, its TV without the naughty channels. Not fair that I have to be here alone. I need Ron. I could have done this with Ron. He always had an eye for a player. If I was the front of the shop, he was the front of, well, a much bigger shop. A much, much bigger shop, actually. I pick up the phone.

  “Ron?”

  “Who the bloody hell is this?” he curses. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Ron, I need you. I can’t do this alone. I‘m not big enough. But you are.”

  “Who is this? How did you get this number?”

  “They’ve got it in for me, Ron. Just like Doug Ellis had it in for you. They all have. Dieter. Erol. Clement. Florian. I need you with me. You can make them laugh. You can turn this around. Come on, Ron. It‘ll be like old times.”

  “Hang on a minute … I recognise that voice. Is that you, Iain? I thought I’d got rid of you.”

  “They hate flair round here, Ron. Hate it and fucking loathe it. Drag it out into the streets and kick it in its guts, kill it and hang it from the lampposts for all to mock and see, from the motorways, from the factories, from the Heidenheim Museum of Clocks.”

  “Are you drunk? I told you never to phone me again. Don‘t get me wrong, I liked Football Fables as much as the next man, but the chapter on me feels a little rushed and it focuses too much on things I may or may not have said off-air and not enough on my two FA Cups with Manchester United, or my short-but-exciting period with Atletico Madrid. Now f*** off.”


  He hangs up. I sit for a moment, cradling the handset to the nape of my neck. Clutching it, as if it were his arm. His great big arm.

  Cassio, the Brazilian left-back, is injured. Andreas Spann, the easily-offended midfielder from Ulm, he’s injured too. Kicked off the park by dirty, dirty Unterhaching. You’ve used all your substitutes. Frustration. You want to play yourself, but that would be stupid. You’re rubbish. Even worse than Dieter. That’s why you took up writing about football. Because you couldn’t play it. Couldn’t. Shouldn’t. Wouldn’t. If it was raining. So you sit in your dug-out and you watch. And you lose.

  I finish my drink. I finish my fag. I go to the window. The sun peers over the horizon, glum and lethargic like the only remaining headlight of an Austin Allegro. I have no more fags. I have no more drink. I do, however, have a large bottle of Listerine and that might just do the trick. I only want to sleep.

  “I don’t think much of the biscuits here.”

  PT.7

  Daniel Bolz looked up from his laptop and grunted his agreement at the newcomer before returning to his keyboard, stabbing at the letters with two pointed fingers.

  “I said, I don’t think much of the biscuits,” the stranger repeated, slightly louder this time. “It’s not like Sandhausen. We get sausages there. Lots of lovely sausages all sizzling in their own juices. Big fat ones, like Britney’s fingers. Mustard too, the whole works.”

  “I’m working to deadline here,” grumbled Daniel without lifting his eyes from the screen.

  “Of course, of course. I’ll leave you alone.”

  There was a long pause.

  “I’m Klauss, by the way. Klauss Kegl. From the Sandhausen Times.”

  Daniel sighed in frustration and stopped typing. He stared at his tormentor. A boyish-looking man, probably in his early 30s, Klauss grinned back at him. A single bogey hung from his left nostril like a skinned chicken in the window of a Chinese restaurant.

  “You’ve got something … something on your nose.”

  “Have I? Good God, so I have!” He plucked the offending lump from his snout and examined it intently. “My word, look at the size of it. You’d think I’d notice something like that, wouldn’t you?” He flicked it hard at the wall, where it stuck like a barnacle to a hull. “Good man!”

  “You what?” asked Daniel.

  “Good man! It takes a good man to point a booger out to a complete stranger. I could have been walking around all day with that up my nose and I’d have looked a right plonker. Let me buy you a drink.”

  “There is no drink.”

  “What? Good Lord, no bar? How’s a chap to wet his whistle?”

  “There’s tea.”

  “Well, let me get you a tea then!”

  “I’ve already got one.”

  “Is there anything you would like?”

  “I’d like to be able to finish my article.”

  “Ha ha! Of course, of course.”

  Klauss sent down in the next chair, disregarding the other seats entirely. Then he stood up again and took off his coat with a flourish that sent drops of rainwater spraying around him, some of them landing on the open laptop.

  Daniel grimaced, but stayed silent. This was his first year at the Heidenheim Football Express, his first year out of university, and he wasn’t about to end his career prematurely by beating a stranger to death with a second-hand Hewlett-Packard. Far better to rise above it and keep on typing. He’d top-and-tailed his commentary long before half-time. Heidenheim had made his job easier by capitulating long before the end, he just needed to tidy it up before he dropped in whatever cliched nonsense Iain Macintosh was going to unload in this press conference. He stopped typing. Hot breath on his cheek, the smell of old tea and peppermints.

  “Do you mind?” he said, without looking up.

  “Sorry, sorry!” said Klauss. “I can’t help reading over shoulders, it’s an awful habit, but I suppose it helps in this line of work, doesn’t it?” And he slapped Daniel on the back.

  “Haven’t you got a deadine?”

  “Ha ha! No, no, not at all. We’re a weekly, y’see. I won’t write this up until tomorrow. Mind you, I’ll need all that time just to type out the goalscorers, won’t I? Eh? Your mob aren’t up to much.”

  “They’re not my mob. I couldn’t care less about them.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, you must agree that this Macintosh character makes life a little more interesting?”

  “I can’t stand him.”

  “How so?”

  “He thinks I’m boring. Keeps having a go at me for asking him the same questions all the time. Wanker.”

  “Oh.”

  “And it’s not like he’s even any good, is it?” said Daniel, warming to his theme. “What’s he had now? Four games? He lost the first one 0–5, scraped a win, lost to Unterhaching and now this, a 0–4 drubbing at the hands of Sandhausen. He won’t last long.”

  “He’s got rather a difficult job on his hands though, hasn’t he?”

  “He’d make it a lot easier if he could stick to the same tactics. 4–4–2 on the first game, 4–5–1 on the second, then 4–3–3 for the third. And was it today? A lop-sided 4–1–3–1–1?”

  “Well, I don’t–”

  “You think biscuits are the problem here? On the first day of the season he gave us a pack of Garibaldis that tasted of vomit! How does that even happen? And then there was the way he treated poor Lothar. It took the paramedics three hours to get that microphone out. All he did was call him a ‘wheeler dealer’, and that isn’t even offensive, not unless you’re desperately trying to cling on to a reputation that never really existed, especially in the face of mounting–”

  Klauss gave Daniel a hefty kick under the table.

  “Sssh, here he comes.”

  Iain Macintosh walked into the room and sat down at a small desk towards the front of the room. He glared at Klauss and Daniel.

  “Just the two of you?”

  They nodded. “Right then,” said Iain, folding his arms across his chest. “Let’s get started.”

  “There aren’t many positives,” began Klauss earnestly.

  “No Sherlock, there aren’t are there?” interrupted Iain. “That first goal? If I was coaching a team of five-year-olds and they conceded something like that, I’d sneak into their houses on Christmas morning and take a sledgehammer to their presents. And they’d thank me for it. The second one? Like watching a wolf munch his way through a kitten sanctuary. The third? I worry about my defenders. They’re the kind of men who drink their own bathwater and lick the windows of the bus. The fourth? Haven’t got a clue, wasn’t even watching. I was playing Scrabble on the iPhone.”

  “Iain?” asked Daniel.

  “Yes?”

  “Stephan Frubeis was pretty solid on his debut. How did you rate his performance?”

  “I don’t want to comment on individual performances,” sighed Iain.

  “The public will want to hear a proper answer from you,” said Daniel, gulping hard. “Stephan Frubeis was pretty solid on his debut. How did you rate his performance?”

  “Stop being a twat, Daniel.”

  Klauss raised his hand.

  “Sherlock?”

  “Roberto Pinto had a great game for Sandhuasen,” Klauss mumbled.

  “Speak up.”

  “Roberto Pinto had a great game for Sandhausen,” he repeated, his voice trembling. “He picked up the man of the match performance. How did you rate his performance?”

  “I don’t want to comment on individual performances.”

  There was a long pause. Klauss spoke again.

  “The public will want to hear a proper answer from you. Roberto Pinto had a great game for Sandhausen. He picked up the man of the match performance. How did you rate his performance?”

  “It’s the same thing from you lot every week, isn’t it?” said Iain getting to his feet. “Can you not ask me anything original? I wonder why I bother sometimes. I might just start sending my assis
tant all the time, because there seems little point in even being here. Are you ever going to say something new? Are you?”

  “I have a question,” said Klauss bravely.

  “Go on,” said Iain, his eyes flashing with barely concealed contempt.

  “Your confidence in your players is admirable. Which do you think is the strongest area of your team? Defence. Midfield. Attack. Or Goalkeeper?”

  “Oh, f*** off,” spat Iain, and he stormed out.

  “See, I told you,” said Daniel, after the noise of the slammed door had stopped ringing in his ears “He’s a w***er.”

  PT.8

  “I met him in a cell in…erm… somewhere…I was…so down and out.

  He…something…me to be the eyes of age … as he spoke right out.

  He talked of life, yes he talked of life. He laughed, clicked heels and he stepped…”

  Maggie knew she couldn’t really sing that well and she didn’t know the words, but she didn’t mind. The boys were out in the garden and even if they could hear her off-key falsetto as it drifted out of the open windows, she knew they wouldn’t do anything more than give her a gentle ribbing. She didn’t mind that either. Banter made the world go round, that’s what Ron always said. But where was he this time?

  “Mister Bojangles, Mister Bojangles, Mister Bojangles, Dance!”

  She continued to buff away at the 1991 Worthington Cup replica they kept on the mantelpiece. Ron used to joke that if he couldn’t comb his hair over in its reflection, then it just wasn’t shiny enough. And then he’d pinch her bottom. Oh, he could make her feel as giddy as a schoolgirl some mornings.

  She heard the key in the door and breathed a sigh of relief. There he was!

  “Good morning, my sweetness and light!” he called from the hallway.

  “Ron!” she answered back, trying to be stern but missing the mark by miles. “Where have you been? I wasn’t in the wide-awake club this morning, so I didn’t even hear you leave.”