January Window (3 page)

At one hundred and ten metres, Sokolnikov’s yacht,
The Lady Ruslana
, wasn’t the biggest in the world, but it was the same size as an international football pitch – a fact that did not go unreported by the newspapers. I’d been on the boat once and was shocked to discover that just to fill the fuel tanks cost £750,000 – which was a year’s pay for me.

‘He’s a strong lad. If anyone can make a recovery it’s Didier Cassell.’

‘I hope so.’

‘What about Ayrton Taylor?’

‘The head that turned out to be a hand?’

‘That’s right.’

During the same match against Tottenham, Howard Webb, the referee, had awarded a goal to London City when our centre forward, Ayrton Taylor, appeared to head it in from a corner. But almost immediately, while everyone else in our team had been celebrating, Taylor had quietly spoken to Webb and informed him that the ball had actually come off his hand. Whereupon Webb changed his mind and awarded a goal kick to the Tots, which was the cue for our own fans to abuse both Webb and Taylor.

‘Was what he did right, do you think?’ asked Sokolnikov.

‘Who, Taylor? Well, what happened was clearly visible on the television replay. And the man scores ten out of ten for sportsmanship for having owned up to it. That’s what the newspapers said. Perhaps it’s time there was more sportsmanship in the game. Like when Paolo Di Canio caught the ball instead of kicking it for West Ham at Goodison, back in 2000. I know João thinks differently, but there it is. I saw Daniel Sturridge put one in for Liverpool against Sunderland in 2013 that quite clearly came off his arm, and it was obvious from the furtive way he looked at the linesman that he knew it wasn’t a proper goal. But that goal stood and Liverpool won the game. And look what happened to Maradona in the ’86 World Cup match against England.’

‘The hand of God.’

‘Precisely. He’s one of the greatest players ever to kick a football, but it certainly hasn’t helped his reputation in this country.’

‘Good point. But Webb had already given the goal, hadn’t he? And an accidental handball is held to be different from a deliberate one.’

‘Law five clearly states that the referee can change his mind until play has restarted. And it hadn’t. So Webb was quite within his rights to do what he did. Mind you, it takes a pretty strong referee to do that. If it had been anyone but Howard Webb I expect the goal would have been allowed to stand, in spite of what Taylor said. Most refs hate to change their minds. It was lucky, I guess, that we won the match 2–1. I might not be so happy about what he did if we’d dropped two points. But you know, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Taylor wins the Player of the Month on the strength of that confession. It’s the sort of fair play the FA likes to shine a spotlight on.’

‘All right. You’ve convinced me. Now tell me about this Scottish goalkeeper, Kenny Traynor. Zarco says you’ve known him for a while. And that you’ve seen him play.’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘João wants to buy him.’

‘So do I.’

‘Nine million is a lot of money for a goalkeeper.’

‘You’ll be glad you spent nine million on a goalkeeper if we’re in a penalty shoot-out at a European final. It was the Bayern goalkeeper, Manuel Neuer, who saved Lukaku’s penalty and delivered the Germans the 2013 UEFA Super Cup. He almost won the Champions League for them against Chelsea the previous year. Christ, he even scored one himself in the shoot-out. No, boss, when push comes to shove you don’t want to find we’ve got Calamity James in goal.’

Calamity James was what Liverpool supporters had called David James – a little unfairly – when he’d played for them.

‘When you put it like that, yes, I suppose you’re right.’

‘Traynor’s the Scotland number one. Not that there’s much choice up there, mind. But I saw him make a diving save against Portugal at Hampden that the Scots still talk about. Cristiano Ronaldo hammered one from eighteen yards that was going into the top corner all the way, but I swear Traynor must have launched himself twenty feet through the air to fist that ball over the bar. Watching it you’d believe a man could fly. Check it out on YouTube. The Jocks don’t call him Clark Kent for nothing. He’s a nice lad. Quiet. Not at all chippy like some north of the border. Works hard in training. And he’s possessed of the biggest, safest hands in football. His dad is a butcher in Dumfries and he’s got his mitts from him. As big as bloody hams, they are. And his hand–eye coordination is superb. When he did the BATAK Challenge he scored 136. The record is 139.’

‘If I knew what that was—’ said Viktor.

‘Not to mention his clearance kick. That boy has a boot on him and no mistake.’

‘I’ve seen some of the films and I agree he’s good. I’d just feel more comfortable about buying him if Denis Kampfner wasn’t his agent. The man’s a crook, isn’t he?’

Restraining my first impulse, which was to mention something about the pot calling the kettle black, I agreed. ‘Agents? They’re all crooks. But at least Kampfner’s a FIFA-registered crook.’

‘As if that makes a difference.’

‘It’s like evolution, Viktor. Agents seem to fulfil a need and I guess we have to tolerate them. Like those birds that sit on the backs of rhinos and peck the ticks out of their ears.’

‘Ten per cent of nine million is a little more than a tick.’

‘True.’

‘So maybe I’ll bring in my own agent to handle it. Zarco thinks I should.’

‘I thought that’s why we had a sporting director. To help make deals like this.’

‘Trevor John is more of a club ambassador than a deal-maker. He helps promote the club and makes it look good when, thanks to the BBC, I don’t. Between you and me, he couldn’t buy a bag of potato chips without paying too much for it.’

‘I see. Well, it’s your choice who you trust to make a deal, Viktor. Your choice and your money.’

‘For sure. By the way, did you see the programme?
Panorama
?’

‘Me? Unless it’s football or a decent film I never watch telly. Least of all crap like
Panorama
.’

‘Just so you know, I’m suing them. There wasn’t a word in that programme which was true. They even got my patronymic wrong. It’s not Sergeyevich, it’s Semyonovich.’

‘All right. I understand. They’re a bunch of cunts. You won’t find me arguing with that. Will you be at Elland Road to see the match against Leeds on Sunday?’

‘Perhaps. I’m not sure. It depends on what the weather is like in the Caribbean.’

City’s training ground, at Hangman’s Wood, was the best of its kind in England, with several full-size pitches, an indoor training facility, a medical and rehabilitation area, saunas, steam rooms, gymnasia, physiotherapy and massage rooms, a number of restaurants, an X-ray and MRI clinic, hydrotherapy pools, ice baths, an acupuncture clinic, basketball courts and a velodrome. There was even a TV studio where players and staff could be interviewed for London City Football Television; Hangman’s Wood was, however, strictly off-limits to press and public on a daily basis, something the media hated. High walls and razor-wire fences surrounded our football pitches so that training sessions could not be subject to the attentions of tabloid photographers with tall ladders and long lenses; in this way bust-ups between players, or even between players and managers, which are sometimes inevitable in the highly charged world of modern sport – who can forget the hugely publicised shoving match that took place between Roberto Mancini and Mario Balotelli in 2012? – were kept strictly private.

And in view of what happened on that particular morning at Hangman’s Wood, this was probably just as well.

Not that there was usually much to see, as João Zarco preferred to leave training sessions to me; like many managers, he liked to observe the proceedings from the sidelines or even through binoculars from the window of his office. Matters of match fitness and teaching football skills were my responsibility, which meant I was able to develop a more personal relationship with all the players; I wasn’t one of the lads, but I was perhaps the next best thing.

João Zarco controlled the club philosophy, team selection, match-day motivation, transfers, tactics and all of the hirings and firings. He also got paid a lot more than me – about ten times as much, actually – but then with all his style, charisma and sheer footballing nous, he was probably the best manager in Europe. I loved him like he was my own older brother.

We started at 10 a.m. and as usual we were outside. It was a bitterly cold morning and a hard frost still lay on the ground. Some of the players were wearing scarves and gloves; a few were even wearing women’s tights, which, in my day, would have earned you a hundred press-ups, twice around the field and a funny look from the chairman. Then again, some of these lads turn up with more skins creams and hair product in their Louis Vuitton washbags than my first wife used to have on her dressing table. I’ve even come across footballers who refused to take part in heading practice because they had a Head & Shoulders advert to shoot in the afternoon. It’s that sort of thing that can bring out the sadist in a coach, so it’s just as well that I happen to believe you’ll get further with a kick up the arse and a joke than you will with just a kick up the arse. But training has to be tough, because professional football is tougher.

I’d just done a
paarlauf
session with the lads, which always produces a lot of lactic acid in the system and is a very quick way of sorting out who is fit and who is not. It’s a two-man relay and a team version of a fartlek session – one man sprints two hundred metres around the track to tag his partner, who has jogged across its diameter and who now sprints again to tag the same partner, and so on – that leaves most men gasping, especially the smokers. I used to smoke, but only when I was in the nick. There’s nothing else to do when you’re in the nick. I followed
paarlauf
with a heads and tails routine where a player runs with the ball towards the goal as fast as he can and then shoots before immediately turning defender and trying to stop the next guy from doing the same. It sounds simple and it is, but when it’s played at speed and you’re tired it really tests your skills; it’s hard to control the ball when you’re also running flat out and knackered.

Along the way I offered explanations for why we were doing what we were doing. A training session is easier when you know what the thinking is behind it:

‘If we’re fit we can open up the pitch, and create space. Making space is simply a matter of breaking the wind and the spirit of the man trying to mark you. Get eyes in the back your head and learn to see who is in space and pass the ball to him, not to the nearest man. Pass the ball quickly. Leeds will defend deep, and dirty. So above all be patient. Learn to be patient with the ball. It’s impatience that ends up giving the ball away.’

Zarco was more involved with the training session than usual, shouting instructions from the sideline and criticising some of the players for not running quickly enough. It’s bad enough to be on the end of that when you’re out of breath; it’s something else when you’re almost puking up from exertion.

When the drill was over Zarco walked on to the pitch and instinctively the lads gathered round to await his comments. He was a tall, thin man and still looked like the strong, fearless centre back he’d been in the 1990s for Porto, Inter Milan and then Celtic. He was handsome, too, in a rugged, unshaven kind of way, with sleepy eyes and a broken nose as thick as a goalpost. His English was good and he spoke in a weary, dark monotone but when he laughed, his was a light falsetto, almost girlish laugh that most people – myself excluded – found intimidating.

‘Listen to me, gentlemen,’ he said quietly. ‘My own philosophy is simple. You play the best football you can, as hard as you can. Always and forever, amen.’

I started translating for our two Spanish players, Xavier Pepe and Juan-Luis Dominguin; I speak pretty good Spanish – and Italian – although my German is near fluent, thanks to my German mother. I could tell this was going to be a bad bollocking. Zarco’s worst bollockings were always the ones given quietly and in his saddest voice.

‘This kind of thinking won’t ever let you down, not like any of those other guys – Lenin or Marx, Nietzsche, or Tony Blair. But in the whole of life on earth, there is perhaps no philosophical mystery quite as profound and as inexplicable as the one of how you can manage to lose 4–3 when you were 3–0 up at half time. To fucking Newcastle.’

The less wise started to smile at that one; big mistake.

‘At least I thought it was a mystery.’ He smiled a nasty little smile and wagged his finger in the air. ‘Until I saw this morning’s poor excuse for a training session – Scott, no offence to you, my friend, you tried to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, as always – and it suddenly occurred to me as if an apple had fallen on my head why this had happened. You’re all a bunch of lazy assholes, that’s why. You know why a lazy asshole is called a lazy asshole? Because it’s not good for shit. And an asshole that’s not good for shit isn’t good for anything.’

Someone sniggered.

‘You think that’s funny, asshole? I’m not making jokes here. You see me laughing? You think Viktor Sokolnikov pays me millions of pounds a year to make fucking jokes down here? No. The only people making jokes around here are you people when you kick a football. Nil–nil against Manchester United? That was a joke. Let me tell you, it’s not just nature that abhors a goalless draw, it’s me, too. We can’t win unless we score and that’s all there is to it, gentlemen.

‘Now, as many of you know, I read a lot about history so that my team can make it. Which is crazy because you people aren’t fit to make the tea on the bus home, let alone history. Seriously. I look at you all and I think to myself, why did I bother coming to manage this club when they don’t even bother to try? Yesterday, some prick of a journalist asked me some crap about what makes a good manager. And I said, winning, you idiot. Winning is what makes a good manager. Now ask me a better question that doesn’t suck like the last one; ask me what should be the aim of a good manager and I will give you a longer answer for your readers. I will write your copy for you, you prick. As always I was doing his job for him, okay? Because that’s the kind of helpful guy I am. Zarco is always good copy. The aim of a good manager in football is to show eleven assholes how to play as one man. But today I think this task is beyond even me. Each manager in this league is a product of the era in which we live, but in my opinion I’m the only manager who can raise himself up above the ordinary thinking of his time. I can make the impossible happen, it’s true. But I’m not Jesus Christ and today I think that even I can’t make the biblical miracle of getting eleven assholes to play like one man.