Parts of this story might have been slightly embellished because while Football Manager is detailed, it’s not that detailed. Yet.
It’s March 2040. My Chemie Leipzig side are gunning for a fifth straight Bundesliga title, being run close by the noisy, energy-drink-fuelled neighbours from across the Elsterbecken. My hard graft, buy-low-sell-high attitude coupled with my innovative win at all costs tactics (nicknamed Lady Amalthea) had seen us overtake RasenBallsport to become the dominant side in Leipzig. The first game back after the international break saw us hosting our local rivals from deep in the bowels of the former Zentralstadion. A win would pretty much guarantee the title, adding it to the Club World Championship won earlier in the season, and we could concentrate on the upcoming Champions League quarter final against Liverpool. Lose, and it could break our season. Draw, and we’d hold our lead, but I wanted the sticky, sickly, Taurine flavoured club to suffer.
It was at this point that I realised having two goalkeepers from the same FIFA region might not have been a smart decision.
I welcomed the majority of my international superstars back from their travels without incident. French winger Yaya Toure (not that one, obviously) had barely played and was whizzing round the training ground like an 8 year old after a bag of Haribo Tangfastics. Oyvind Skollerud, the Norwegian striker who had the all time Chemie record goalscorer, um, record in his sights, had scored twice in a 10 minute cameo off the bench and wanted to add more to his total. Marius Wirtz, my €78m defensive midfielder poached from Mönchengladbach and my missing puzzle piece, was telling everyone who would listen how he two-footed a crate of Red Bull drinks at his local supermarket the night before. My team, my wonderful boys, were up for the derby.
The outfield players were, anyway. I looked across to where Jan Zimmerman was warming up the keepers with the goalkeeping coaches, and instead of seeing Luis Garza and Luis Vela debating the merits of Stetsons versus Sombreros, all I saw was Jan kicking footballs at a spotty 17 year old who looked like he weighed all of 50 kilos soaking wet. I called him over.
“Jan, where are the Luises?”
“Uh, Ontario, the last I checked.”
“Oh, how lovely for them! Are they visiting Her Majesty, Carly Rae Jepsen? They do know we’ve got a game tomorrow, yes?”
“Flight’s delayed, boss. Snowing, innit. Due in Berlin tomorrow at 12:30.”
“But we kick off at 12:30. In the derby. They’ll still be showing as on international duty, we won’t be able to select them!”
“Well, boss, I’d like you to meet Stephan! As soon as I heard about the delay, I pulled him out of the Under 19 squad to train with us. He may have the agility of an angry dishwasher, and the communication skills of Marcel Marceau…”
I looked at Jan expectantly. He had a butface.
“But…?”
“But I also left a bottle of whiskey in your office, with another one packed for tomorrow at 2:15.”
I put a brave face on, though I’m fairly sure my smile didn’t meet my eyes, and turned to my saving grace.
“Always glad to make use of our excellent youth facilities, Stephan! Jan will warm you up and then we’ll take you through the defensive drills - should be familiar to you, we play it my way across all age groups and genders at this club.”
I threw him a freshly printed “Bleibtreu 30” shirt, and he caught it. At the third attempt. I glanced at Jan.
“It’s the strong whiskey, boss.”
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Matchday. After an unsuccessful night of begging, pleading, crying and cajoling Lufthansa to divert to Leipzig, or at the very least drop my two keepers off on the way - I offered to pay for parachutes, too! - I was resigned to starting with a goalkeeper who wasn’t even born when Marcus Rashford was elected the UK PM in 2023. Rather than flood the defence and midfield and protect Bleibtreu as much as possible, I stuck with my attack minded "Lady Amalthea" approach, reasoning that if the ball was up the other end I was less likely to suffer a coronary whenever Red Bull attacked.
This lasted all of seven minutes. In their first attack their left winger whipped a cross into the box. Bleibtreu watched, gormlessly, as it sailed over his head to the grateful Andy van Eck who slammed it home. As the five thousand away fans burst into a chant of “dodgy keeper” Bleibtreu looked around, desperately wanting the ground to swallow him whole. My opposite number goaded me from his technical area with a bizarre crotch-chop gesture. I heard a voice in my ear.
“My daughter’s standing next to his Mercedes with a rock, boss. Just say the word.” My coach, Pol Lirola, hissed in Spanish-accented German. “Just say. The. Word.”
Before I could respond to my right hand man press ganging his eight year old into acts of vandalism again, we kicked off. A fired up Skollerud exchanged passes with Ognjen Ilic, brushed off a half-hearted challenge from an RB CB and burst clear of their defence! With only the keeper to beat, he wound up, put his laces through the ball, and slammed it against the post.
Barely had the 46,000 strong Chemie faithful sucked in a breath for a disappointed “awww” before the ball rebounded back, off their goalkeeper’s skull, and into the net for an equaliser! The awwws turned to cheers and I had to restrain Lirola from getting another FA charge for “comparing an opposing manager’s mother to farmyard animals”.
Toure woke up and started to demonstrate every single point of his leadership rating. Dictating play, pinging cross field balls to stretch the RB side, pointing at things, he took the game by the scruff of the neck. Both sides settled into a pulsating rhythm, but neither managed to test the opposing keeper until 25 minutes in. One of my “elite” centre backs got his left and right mixed up and suddenly van Eck burst clear with only Bleibtreu to beat. Our fans were already preparing the “chin up Stephan” chants when he leapt, catlike, across the goal to turn van Eck’s shot around the post. From the resulting corner he made a superb double save, once with his hands and one with his face, to keep the scores level.
While this was going on, the RB left-back had been goading Toure with the usual attempts at gamesmanship - “Johnny Halliday is overrated! Amelie is dull! Victor Hugo’s work is padded out with pointless digressions!” - and Yaya had had enough. He picked up the game by the scruff of the neck. A mazy run through the home defence, twisting and turning and leaving his nemesis flat on his arse, ended with Toure slamming the ball past their still shell-shocked keeper. We held a two-one lead at the break, and I confiscated yet another flick-knife from Lirola as I bundled my backroom staff into the dressing room.
Ignoring Jan’s suggestions for a team talk I calmly reminded my boys of the perils of complacency and lavished praise on my defence. Bleibtreu seemed to grow three sizes with confidence, and I sent the team back out accompanied by the roar of the home fans in the Kai Druschky stadium. Toure picked up exactly where he left off, with a second goal two minutes into the half, and we were 3-1 up and purring. Jan suggested we see out the second half by shutting the game down, but I wanted more! I wanted to humiliate the jumped up village team from Markranstädt!
The dictionary defines hubris as “excessive pride or self-confidence, often leading to a downfall”. In persisting with my attack based strategy, holes appeared at the back and by ‘Eck, van Eck slammed home his and Red Bull’s second of the game with fifteen minutes to go. Our two goal lead had been reduced to one and I switched to the Schmendrick defensive tactic I kept in reserve for tight games. Off came Skollerud, on came the mercurial Italian centre back Bennati, and we bunkered down for a nervy fifteen minutes. Our only outlet for pressure relief was Toure, and he did his best to keep the ball up the other end, but after the RB LB was taken off with twisted blood, the fresh legs of his replacement easily outpaced our knackered Frenchman. Shot after shot piled in, pinging off the frame of the goal, being blocked by various body parts of various Chemie players, but as the 4th official held up his board we were still leading.
90+4. We’d had the allotted injury time, and amidst the deafening whistles from the fans imploring referee Wischer to blow up for full time, van Eck picked up the ball on the halfway line. Easily evading the despairing lunges of my worn out defenders, he slalomed his way towards my nervous puppy in goal. Two of his team-mates had made similar runs into space, keeping up with him, but he only had an eye for goal and the match ball. As he entered our area Bleibtrau summoned all 9 points of his rushing out rating and came out to meet the Dutchman. van Eck steadied himself, picked his spot, and placed his shot carefully against Bleibtrau’s big toe. The ball ballooned harmlessly into the home fans where it promptly disappeared, suddenly reappearing seconds later after Wischer blew for full time.
In the full time huddle I had nothing but praise for my last minute stand-in. Making his debut in a 1st vs 2nd clash, against our local rivals no less, I couldn’t hold back.
“Nice work, Stephan! Am I proud of you! When you go home tonight, there’s going to be another storey on your house!”
He looked at me blankly. Jan whispered in my ear.
“Boss, I keep telling you, nobody understands your classical literary references.”
I came up with a more understandable reward. The very next day Stephan Bleibtrau signed a five year contract, no negotiation on the wages and bonuses he requested, and as long as he wants to stay here there will always be a place for him at Chemie. If he leaves I’ll retire the number 30 shirt in his honour. I can’t see him playing another first team game for the club, outside of dead rubber CL group stages, but it won’t matter. He saved my bacon in that derby game, and I’m forever in his debt.
Unless he starts agitating for a move to Lokomotiv Leipzig. Then the little sod’s banished to the reserves until the end of time.
