Football Manager Stole My Life

by Iain Macintosh

  “It wouldn’t have mattered if you were in the wide-awake club or not, my princess,“ said Ron, striding into the living room like a general. “I’d have only given you the eyebrows and slipped out, left lollypop.”

  “I’ll earn that spotter’s badge one day,” Maggie giggled. “You see if I don’t! Now, where have you been?”

  “I nipped out to the newsagent early doors, but I found Ken in an awful state.”

  “What’s wrong with him? Have the paperboys been bullying him again?”

  “There’s your spotter’s badge, you sweet, sweet cherry! That’s exactly what they’ve been doing. They’ve been showing up late, pilfering fags while he’s on the bog. One of ‘em has even been posting bongo mags through old ladies’ doors. Horror show. No team spirit.”

  “What did you do?”

  “The only thing I could, my reason-to-live. I called ’em all into the backroom and put a reducer on the biggest one, just to let him know who the gaffer was. I slapped the second-biggest one for laughing and then I laid the law down. Big Ron’s big speech. Then, when I was finished and they were still snivelling about Child Line, I called a minicab and sent them all, Ken included, out for a golf day. Get some smiles on some faces. Ken’ll be just fine now.”

  “Oh, you are clever, love.”

  “It’s what I do. Are the lads here?”

  “They certainly are, they’re out in the back garden.”

  “How are they doing? How’s Carlton coping with the guttering?”

  Maggie pursed her lips. “Well, he’s a bit awkward, isn’t he? He had some problems with the ladder at first, fell off it twice, but he’s really putting a shift in. I couldn’t ask any more of the lad. He’s not got much in his locker, skill-wise, but he’s not short of heart, my angel. I took him a Vimto about 20 minutes ago. He seemed well pleased.”

  “And Dalian? How’s he doing with that lawn?”

  “Not as good, love. He started well, a beguiling combination of pace and power that made me think he could achieve anything he wanted to in that garden, but to be honest, it’s all gone to pot now. Just take a look out the window.”

  Ron peered through the net curtains. “What’s he doing?”

  “I think he’s making daisy chains, bless him.”

  “Alright, I’ll have a word.”

  “Just before you do, love … we got another one of those messages.”

  “Oh, Christ. How bad?”

  “It’s not a good one. It came while I was taking a cup of tea for Deano, he’s here fixing up the tree-house. He’s not …. he’s not right, Ron.”

  “Deano?”

  “No, love. Deano’s never been right. I meant this Iain bloke. He’s not well.”

  “Let’s have a listen, shall we?”

  Maggie shuddered. “Do you mind if I don’t, love? It gives me the collywobbles.”

  Ron nodded and walked out into the hallway. The red light on the answer-machine blinked accusingly. He took a deep breath and pressed the button.

  “You have … one message. Message received on August. The Twenty-Second. To return the call … press hash.”

  “Come on,” groaned Ron impatiently.

  “Are you there, Ron? It’s me. Iain. I don‘t know what I‘m doing wrong, Ron. I‘ve improved the squad, I‘ve laid down the law, I‘ve even put the reducer on Dieter Jarolsh. It‘s not happening. Offenbach. 0-1. We‘ve lost three on the bounce now and I can‘t see where the next goal is coming from, let alone the next win. What is it, Ron? What‘s the secret? How did you do it with West Brom? How did you build that confidence … I tried it with Faruk Gul. I gave him a cuddle. In front of everyone, I gave him a cuddle and told him that he was a world-beater. Now he just thinks I’m a bit weird and the lads all cover themselves when I walk into the dressing room. I took Florian Krebs out for a drink, but I got a bit squiffy and did some sick on his shoes. I went karting with Martin Klarer, but I ran him into the tyre wall and he’s out for six weeks with an ankle injury. I can’t seem to do anything right. I give biscuits to the press, I treat the staff with respect, but I never get anything back. Apart from Alex. He’s great and I probably shouldn’t have appointed Alfred over his head in retrospect, especially as he doesn’t really help much but … Oh, Ron, what do I do? What do I … what… wh…”

  “It goes quiet here for a while and then he just cries for five minutes,” said Maggie, appearing behind Ron and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Like I said, he’s not well.”

  “We’ve all felt that pain, Margaret.” said Ron with a strange, distant look in his eyes. “We’ve all felt that loneliness.”

  Maggie slipped back into the kitchen. He hadn’t called her by her actual name for a long time. A long, long time.

  “To delete this message. Press. Three.”

  Ron reached out and pushed the number three.

  “Margaret?” he called out.

  “Yes, love?”

  “Ask Deano if he’s got any plans for the next week, will you?“

  “Of course, love.”

  “And tell Carlton to fire up the Ron-mobile.”

  “Yes, love.”

  “And Margaret?”

  “Yes, love?”

  “Actually, never mind. Probably best just to leave Dalian to his daisy chains, eh?”

  PT.9

  I opened the door of the boot room and walked headfirst into a wave of sweat and laughter, raw jubilation crashing through the air. I grinned, I closed my eyes and I just let it wash over me like a hot shower after a long, long run.

  When I opened my eyes again, Ron was right up in my face, roaring at me.

  “I told you! Didn’t I tell you? I TOLD YOU! I told you that you could do it! What did I tell him, Carlton?”

  “You told him, gaffer,” smiled Carlton and he stuck out one of his enormous arms and ruffled the back of my head.

  “Do you want some bubbles, Macca?” squealed Dean Saunders in delight. He thrust a cold bottle of champagne into my hand, excitedly bouncing up and down on the spot like a naughty monkey preparing to throw his poo.

  “Easy now, Deano,” said Ron. “Let the poor lad get his breath back. Let him take a seat. It’s not every day you beat the league leaders.” He pulled us both down on to the physio’s bench and put his arm round my shoulders. His great big arm.

  “But I want him to have it noooooow!” wailed Deano, stamping his feet and spinning like a dervish.

  “Come on then, Deano,” I announced, giving Ron a quick grin. “Give us a go on those bubbles.”

  “Wheeeee!” Deano screamed, which was odd. “You’re gonna love it! You‘re gonna love it!”

  I pressed the cold neck of the bottle to my lips, a relief in this tiny room, dense and dank with the fug of man-sweat. I threw my head back. The champagne flowed into my aching, shouted-out throat and burned like acid, its over-powering aftertaste rising up through my nostrils like the bell on a Test Your Strength machine.

  “Christ, Deano. That’s rancid!” I howled, swallowing hard, desperately hoping that the taste would disappear as quickly as it had arrived.

  “Do you wanna know why?” giggled Deano, his eyes so wide that they could have fallen out of his head at any moment. Beside me, Ron’s head dropped and I heard Carlton sigh.

  “Is it from Portugal?”

  “No!” laughed Deano like a horse. “It’s ‘cos I p***ed in it! I p***sd in it!”

  “For f***’s sake, Deano,” groaned Carlton. “Why are you always p***ing in the champagne? It was funny the first time, but it’s getting really old now.”

  Deano sank to his knees in hysterics, beating the tiled floor with his fists.

  “I’m sorry, Macca, I really am,” said Ron. “He’s a f***ing animal.”

  “I don’t care,” I laughed. “I don’t care that I’ve just drunk Dean Saunders’ p***. Those three points are more than enough to take the taste away. I never would have believed that we’d beat Eintract Braunschweig, not ever. I mean, they’ve got Carste
n Jancker!”

  “That’s your problem, son,” said Ron. “You don’t believe. Take Carlton here. He didn’t believe that he could play for England. But he could. I always knew he could. Only 10 per cent of success is out there on the pitch. The other 90 per cent, that’s between your ears. If you’re mentally strong….”

  “You’ll not go far wrong,” echoed Carlton.

  “Exactly,” said Ron. “Now pass me the ice bucket. I put one of my good magnums in there and it’s still sealed. There’s no chance Deano could have got to it.”

  “Thanks, Ron,” I said. I picked up the ice-bucket and handed it to him. “You were right about Florian Krebs. Getting him to man-to-man mark Jancker was a master-stroke.”

  Ron opened the champagne with a resounding pop, plonked it back in the ice bucket and handed it back to me.

  “That’s just experience. There’s always an angle, always a way to make the difference. In the League Cup final of 1994, we put Deano up front on his own, relying on his intelligence to carve out chances.”

  We looked down at Deano. He’d gone foetal with the giggles, squirming on the floor, tears streaming down his face, a damp patch spreading steadily across the lap of his tracksuit.

  “It was a long time ago,” said Ron quickly. “Try the champagne.”

  The door opened and Alex poked his head round.

  “Alex!” I shouted. “We’ve just opened a bottle! Come and join us!”

  “We?” said Alex with a strange look on his face. “Us?”

  I looked around. The room was empty. Dirty boots lined the walls, stud-clumps of dirt lay on the floor. It was cold and there was the smell of damp.

  “I…” I said. “No-one. No-one. Just me.”

  Alex stared at me. “Why are you holding the mop bucket?”

  I looked down. A filthy mop bucket full of ice looked back at me. In the middle, a jumbo-sized bottle of Listerine bobbed between the cubes. The seal was broken. It was only half-full. An eternity passed by in my mind like a dust-storm.

  “Iain?” said Alex.

  “I was going to clean the boot-room, Alex. It helps me think.”

  “Ok, fair enough. I thought I heard voices?”

  “Just me,” I said. “I like to vocalise my thoughts after a win.”

  “A win!” laughed Alex. “It’s been a while since that happened!”

  “What?”

  “We lost, gaffer. 0–2. Eintract Braunschweig. Jancker got them both. Are you sure you’re alright?”

  I looked around the cold, empty boot-room, missing the warmth and the camaraderie and Ron and Carlton, not so much Deano, and the feeling that I’d done something. That I’d achieved. That I was worth it. I missed that feeling like a child misses his mother on the first day of school.

  “No, Alex.” I said quietly. “I’m not entirely sure that I am.”

  PT.10

  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 the squirrels did not consent, announced the judge, and for that reason, a custodial sentence was necessary. More from the Bundesliga later, but now to the backwaters of German football and the strange story of a journalist who waded way out of his depth. It’s five years since the mysterious disappearance of Heidenheim manager Iain Macintosh. The Englishman, who arrived at the struggling German club amidst a blaze of publicity, lost nine of his 10 games in charge of the team before walking out of the training ground, never to return. Lothar Gerber speaks to the men who knew him best.

  Alex Raaf (Heidenheim 2002 – 2010)

  I’ll never forget that morning, for sure. None of us will.

  Dieter Jarosch (Heidenheim 2007 – Present)

  We knew that something was wrong. He couldn’t walk through a door until he’d slapped himself in the testicles 14 times. That’s not the sign of a healthy mind.

  Florian Krebs (Heidenheim 2009 – 2010)

  He was sick in the dressing room. Out of his nostrils. While giving a team-talk! Even Joe Kinnear has never done that before.

  VT – Footage of Iain Macintosh in a suit, signing terms with the club. Smiling.

  Iain Macintosh (2009) – Of course it will be a challenge! But I’m ready for it!

  Lothar Gerber (sat on the bench at a deserted Albstadion) – Millions of us play Football Manager every day. On our computers. On our phones. On our specta-consoles. The fantasy of taking control of our favourite football team is over-powering. We all like to think that we know best. We all wish for a chance to find out for real.

  (Looks hard at the camera)

  Sometimes, you should be careful what you wish for.

  Alex Raaf (Heidenheim 2002 – 2010)

  Yeah, it was a surprise to us. We knew that the old man was bringing in a manager from left-field, but we didn’t ever think it would be that left-field. He wasn’t a player, he wasn’t a coach. He was a writer. And granted, Football Fables – the true stories of triumph and despair from football’s mavericks – was a great book. I’m just not sure that it was enough to prepare him for the rigours of football management.

  Dieter Jarosch (Heidenheim 2007 – Present)

  Oh God, he was weird from the start. He called me a ‘gormless erection’ and a ‘lumbering fanny’ in the same sentence. I mean, can’t you see how weird that is? That’s a man-part and a lady-part. How can I be both? Crackers. Absolutely crackers. I loathed him.

  Florian Krebs (Heidenheim 2009 – 2010)

  He tried his best, I guess. He once took me out for a drink to explain the concept of a clearance. First he tried to do it with words, but that didn’t help. Then he tried diagrams, but I was still none the wiser. He went down the road, bought a guitar and tried to teach me through the medium of music, but still nothing. I just couldn’t see why I shouldn’t fanny about in possession on the edge of my own penalty area, oblivious to the threat of oncoming strikers. I mean, what could possibly go wrong? Week in. Week out. Anyway, we were there so long that we both got completely ratted and he chucked up all over my winkle-pickers. Poor man.

  VT – Footage of Iain Macintosh rocking backwards and forwards in the dug-out. Subtitles appear. He tells Alex Raaf to sit down. Raaf obeys. Macintosh seems calm. Then he erupts. “What are you sitting down for?” he bellows. “Get up!” And he pushes Raaf off the bench.

  Lothar Gerber (sat on the bench at a deserted Albstadion) – The pressure began to tell. Heidenheim were thrashed 0–5 by Erfut. Then they beat Aue 3–2 in a dramatic afternoon in Bavaria. But Macintosh never won another point. Defeats followed with crippling inevitability. Unterhaching (0–1), Sandhausen (0–4), Offenbach (0–1), Eintract Braunschweig (0–2), Dresden (0–2), Jena (1–3), Wuppertal (0–3) and finally, on the 19th of September, to Bayern Munich II (0–6).

  Alex Raaf (Heidenheim 2002 – 2010)

  I walked into the dressing room the morning after and the smell was unbearable. There were empty bottles of Listerine all over the floor and the words, “WHY HAST THOU FORSAKEN ME, RON?” were scrawled on the walls in excrement. I mean, I’d seen him vomit, I’d seen him cry, I’d seen him talk to a mop bucket and I’d seen him naked. In Starbucks. At 4pm. I have to be honest, though. That was the first time I thought he might be a bit mental.

  Dieter Jarosch (Heidenheim 2007 – Present)

  It was all so pointless. We were relegated at the end of the season anyway. I don’t think anyone could have kept us up. The important thing, and I think the thing that Macintosh always missed, was that we were a team. We share our success and we share our failure. I mean, look at me. I’m 33 and I’m still part of Heidenheim. Obviously I’m semi-professional again now. What do I do as a proper job? Oh, I work in a dairy. It’s my job to massage the milk out of the cows by swinging a flat-bottomed instrument against their rear-end. I prefer to use a banjo, personally. Mind you, I’m not very good. I always seem to miss.

  Florian Krebs (Heidenheim 2009 –
2010)

  I’ll miss him. Underneath that snivelling, swearing, sick-splattered wreck of a man, with his lack of understanding of defensive practice, his unabashed amateurism, his violent tantrums and his cruel barbed–…I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten my original point.

  Lothar Gerber (sat on the bench at a deserted Albstadion) – Macintosh left few clues behind. His hotel room was immaculate, save for a discarded copy of ‘Championship Manager 2001/02. On the front of the box was the message.

  “I was good at this one. Honest. Once I took Southend United into the UEFA Cup.”

  Some say that he vanished to Asia, others think he now resides in a hippy commune in India. One internet site boasts pictures of him playing with an astronaut, a dinosaur and a potato-headed man, though on closer inspection, that’s probably a still of Woody from Toy Story. Perhaps the mystery will never be solved. Perhaps we have seen the last of this ill-mannered English fop and his volcanic temper tantrums. Speaking as someone who once had to have his own microphone surgically removed from his anus, I say ‘good riddance’.

  Back to you in the studio, Rutger.

  ENDS

  APPENDIX I

  Pages from the user guide

  SOFTWARE OBJECTIVES SUMMARY

  WHY IS THIS PRODUCT SO UNIQUE?

  Football management strategy games are hardly a new idea. Therefore, any new implementation must surely have some fundamental difference which sets it apart. We have identified the reasons our game is unique:

  It has great depth. There are 1500 players in the games, each with two screens of information. Although up to four people can play the game, there are also 150 or so computer-controlled managers ‘trying’ equally hard to succeed. We have written routines in the program that allow the computer managers to make decisions about team selection, which players to buy and sell to strengthen their squads, whether to make a sub during a match, etc. Each club has its own squad of 16 to 25 players. There are 80 league clubs. People who have played the games have very often spent ages just flicking through the hundreds of player information screens looking at the wealth of information available.