‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the club, not a player was roaming, they were all in the pub
Christmas Eve. A pause for breath before a run of three games in a week, then four days off before a tricky FA Cup 3rd round tie away at Chelsea. After a strong season vying for a European spot last year, we’d regressed to our mean and were now scrapping against relegation. Our usual spot, true, but after last year the fans were upset. Pride of Kent? We’d struggle to be called the Pride of Medway.
I was frustrated and angry. After all I’d done for this club, dragging them up from the doldrums of League 2 to give Premier League football to the masses, and this is how I get repaid? Talking heads talking utter nonsense on tv about how I was nothing without my old assistant manager. A new consortium, demanding to know why I wasn’t winning games 6-0 while blooding five new youth players a match. Fans banging on the dugout - MY DUGOUT - after a late equaliser got us a point at home to Fulham, calling for my head.
I’ve turned a profit in every season! Buying cheap, selling high, finding diamonds in the rough. Always sticking to my wage budget, and why spend money on transfers when free agents are just as good? Record transfer fee? Much good may it do them!
I flung a stapler across my office in frustration, narrowly missing my new assistant manager as he barged in.
“Oh, what do you want, Robert?” I sneered at him. I’d brought him in to inject some fresh blood to the side, in the hopes that we could push on and take the club into Europe - not that being in Europe appeals to the Kentish masses - but instead we’d butted heads on almost every decision.
“News from the board, boss. They said you’ve got three games to turn it around or you’re out.”
“Right then! Those defensive drills I told you to run are going to come in handy! Two banks of four, a low block, stick Murray and Allen up front for any loose balls. Defend defend defend! We can’t lose if we don’t concede, and they won’t sack me if I’m undefeated after those three games!”
“Alright, ok.” We’d had discussions before about tactics, Cratchy and I. He had a “revolutionary new formation” that would get the best out of Murray, but I’d always shouted it down (sometimes literally) as it left us too open at the back. “They also wanted to remind you - again - to bring through more players from the youth side.”
“That’s it!” I roared. “I’ve had quite enough of their ‘children are the future’ rubbish. Contact every single player on the U-23 and U-18 teams, tell them their contracts are cancelled, we’re closing the academy. They can’t make me bring through players from the youth side if we don’t have a youth side!”
“Boss, it’s Christmas Eve!”
“Good, then try their landline numbers first, they’ll probably be at home with their families!” I allowed myself a brief smile. While it wouldn't do to show emotion in front of my lessers, it felt good to get one over those busybodies from CJHD. There’s no place in football for investment firms!
“What’ll happen to the players?”
“Are there no Swindons? No Maidstones? Smaller clubs will be happy to pick up our rejects!” I quickly considered a different approach. Could we offer the players on a free with a sell-on clause? No, there’s no money down in the Football League. It’s not worth it.
“But boss, my boy’s in the Under-18 squad, he’s done his ACL, nobody’ll take him!”
“Nobody would take him anyway you muppet, he’s only here as a favour to you! Hopefully he’s got his mother’s brains so he’ll have a prospering career outside of football, at least! Now, show yourself out, you’ve got calls to make!”
No sooner had Cratchy left than I departed as well, with a growl. My hopes for a pub dinner were dashed by the oiks that frequented the local taverns, so I sat with a microwave meal in front of the tv. A peaceful evening, ruined when my door slammed open.
“Ebby! Me old mucker, can’t believe you’re still hanging on at that club!”
Robert Marlborough - a right geezer, proper football man, and my former assistant manager up until his retirement seven months ago this very night - had dropped by.
“Marley! I thought you’d moved to the Canary Islands! What brings you back?”
“Nah, couldn’t stand it there, too many Norwich fans! Had to come by, see me old mate, didn’t I? ‘Ere, what time is it? One? Stick Sky Sports News on, they’re running an interview with a familiar face on the hour!”
I changed the channel to be confronted with Dan “Danny” White, former club captain now playing in the Bundesliga, talking about the relegation battle.
“Useless workshy sod, ‘e only went to Germany because of the winter break, the lazy git!”
I hushed Marley, and paid attention to the interview.
“...such a sad sight, y’know, to see a once proud club down fighting to stay in this league, y’know? When I were there like, before I left for Hamburg…”
“Bah! Hamburg!” I shouted at the TV.
“...we were on the cusp of Europe, y’know, things was looking up, but me old gaffer’s holding them back! They need someone more forward thinking, y’know, like Erik van Schmidt!”
I turned off the TV in disgust. Marley looked up at me from the sofa.
“I ‘ate to say it, but the boy’s right. Remember our League One campaign? Putting all them sides to the sword? Remember when you lost that drinking competition and had to play a 2-3-5 formation at ‘ome to Mansfield? That 10-4 win’s the stuff of legends! That’s the Ebby that people should remember, not this “quick on the draw” merchant! My history’s already been written, but you, Ebby, you can change yours!”
“Oh, what is this, Marley? Get out, and take your KFC with your optimism! There’s more gravy than grave about you, what’s happened? You’ve gone soft!”
“You still have a chance, Ebby. A chance and hope of escaping my fate. But you need to change, mate.”
At that, Marley left, slamming my door behind him. I turned the TV back on. Danny White was still spitting pearls of wisdom.
“Really, y’know, me old gaffer’s lost the dressing room. ‘E’s got no control there any more.”
“I bloody haven’t! I have the power to make those lazy sods happy or unhappy! To make their training light or heavy! A pleasure or a toil!” I roared, not caring that he couldn’t hear me, and forgetting that I’d long since delegated the training duties to my assistant.
Danny turned to the camera, his eyes burning deep within my soul, and somehow becoming more eloquent. “He's scared, that's what it is. All his other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the chance of the sack. His nobler aspirations have gently dropped off, and now all he cares about is hoarding points, not entertaining football.”
I turned the TV back off. What did he know?
“Bah, Hamburg” I repeated, as I went to bed.
After what felt like hours of tossing and turning, I was still no closer to dropping off. I was interrupted at the stroke of midnight by the grand sonorous bells of St Martin’s church ringing out - I’d set them as my ringtone, and they were chiming out the sound of a video call from Cratchy.
“Ah, Cratchy! Finally seen the light and come to terms with my low block, have we?” I greeted my assistant.
“No-o, not that boss. We’re letting the kids open a present early, then they’re going to bed to wait for Santa. Just thought with you being all alone you might want a bit of familial Christmas joy!”
“Christmas joy?! Have you learned nothing over the last seven months?! And Santa? Cratchy, your youngest child is the 17-year-old giant with one leg stinking up my youth academy! Aren’t they a little too old to be believing in Santa?”
“But boss, just you wait until you see the childlike wonder on their faces! I’m just hiding my phone in the tree, they won’t know you’re there.”
I tutted while he positioned me near the top of the tree, where my club will be once the defensive drills are in place. His family filed in, with the youngest, Timmy, hobbling in on crutches. Heh, I chuckled to myself, Cratchit’s Crutches would be a good name for a business, maybe there’s hope for them yet. They exchanged gifts, but before opening them, Robbie stood up to say a few words.
“Now, I know we all had high hopes when I took on this assistant manager position. A Premier League club, my first proper coaching role, it’s not going well but I’m confident that we can turn this around, avoid relegation, and then I can start earning a proper wage. A toast! To the man who gave me my start in football!”
“Oh, I’d give him a start alright!” his wife piped up. “You’ve been nothing but unhappy ever since you started working for him! All he cares about is clean sheets and long balls, nothing good in life!”
“Honey, please, not in front of-” a glance towards my vantage point in the tree “not in front of the children.”
I was distracted by an email from the club doctor. By sheer chance, it had the results of the younger Cratchit’s latest scan, and insomuch as I could understand the medical gobbledegook, it didn’t look good for his future career. I returned to the call, and it seemed like he knew it too, as his toast was half-hearted and distracted. I didn’t want to be watching any longer.
Two hours later. Normally two paragraphs of a puff-piece on The Athletic about Pep Guardiola’s revolutionary tactics would be enough to send me to sleep, but I’d read three full articles - including comments! - and was no closer to slumber. I turned on the radio app on my phone, to hear the latest attempts at punditry from ex-players trying to earn a quick coin.
“And what of the battle at the bottom, what do we think there?”
“Well, it’s not looking good for the bottom club. You know what they say, bottom at Christmas, almost certain to go down! They’ve held on to that Scrooge fella for far too long.”
I was shocked. I’d brought them up from League Two, is there no loyalty in the modern game?
“But he brought them up from League Two,” the host continued, “is there no loyalty in the modern game?”
“Welllll, there’s loyalty, and there’s loyalty. If they want to stay up, they need to pay him up, and get someone new and forward thinking in place! They did the right thing, forcing him to get a dynamic young assistant when his old mate retired in the summer, maybe it’s time to let Cratchit take the reins completely? Otherwise, they’ll get stuck in their ways, and regress to bouncing around between League One and Two like they usually do. And with those bank loans they’ve taken out to pay for the new stadium, eesh, it’s not looking good. This could be the peak. A tumble down the league, successive relegations, administration and bankruptcy aren’t out of the picture for them. They need a change of ways, and fast!”
"Spirit FM!" I cried, tight clutching at the phone, "hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for these nightmares. Why show me this, if I am past all hope? I will honour attacking football in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The ideas of entertaining football shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that it teaches!”
A jolt of electricity from the phone, and I dropped it, smashing it on my cold wooden floors. Finally I felt like I could rest.
I awoke with a start, on a cold crisp morning. Hurtling open my bedroom window I gazed down on a snow-laden street. I felt elated, joyous, like I could skip down the touchline. A new man! It wasn’t over yet, and I decided if these were my last three games, I’d go out in a blaze of glory! But I felt so rested, had I missed the Boxing Day game? A young urchin in club colours was rolling a snowman on the street below.
“You there, boy! What day is it?”
“Fuck off out my club you useless waste of space! Let someone else take over for the derby tomorrow!”
Tomorrow. The match was tomorrow! It was still Christmas Day! That foulmouthed little brat was right!
With a covering of snow on the pitches, there was no hope for training. I reached for my phone to let the players know, only to find the shattered remains beneath my bed. No matter! I dressed in my best club tracksuit, and strode towards the Cratchits, jovially greeting the few runners that passed me. No sooner had I begun to hammer on Cratchy’s door than it opened, and I was greeted by my assistant.
“Boss! I was just leaving for training, I swear!”
“No, no need for that Cratchy, you’re not taking training today!”
“What? If you’ve turned up at my house to fire me on Christmas morning, that’s low, even by your standards! Heck, that’s low even by Crystal-Palace-firing-Trevor-Francis-on-his-birthday standards!”
“No, no, don’t worry, I’m not firing you! Why would I fire the man who has such revolutionary ideas about ginger-pressing!”
“Um, boss, I think you mean gegenpressing, and that’s not my idea…”
“Well, whatever, I need you to tell me all of your wonderful ideas! But please, surely you can let me in? I come bearing good news - we’re signing that attacking midfielder from Turkey that I kept telling you we didn’t have the funds for!”
Cratchy let me in, reluctantly, and I burst into the warm front room - which rapidly became colder than the outside when the family Cratchit saw it was me. Understandable, I did sign their patriarch to a contract slightly under a living wage. But that was going to change.
“Good news, everyone! I’m not stealing your father from you today - training is cancelled, so you can keep him all day!”
“How generous of you,” Mrs Cratchit muttered, with a possible hint of sarcasm.
“And that’s not all! I’m going to start listening to him more, and try the Diamond Destroyer (ZaZ - Blue DM - Martin Snoop 433 Hybrid) tactic he’s been recommending! While my time at the club may be drawing to a close, at least we’ll have some fun!”
Their faces brightened. I had one more card to play, to show that I really was a changed man.
“And what’s this? Santa seems to have dropped a present at my place by mistake! Open this, will you, young Timmy?”
The young man hobbled over to take an envelope from my outstretched hand. I probably should have not made the kid with the ACL injury move about, but this whole “being good” thing is a work in progress.
“Well, young man, what is it?”
He ran his finger along the text on the front, mouthing the words as he read them.
“It’s…it’s a new three year contract!”
“Yes, we’ve seen your potential, and want to nurture it. I know we’re waiting for the result of your scans to come back, but I wanted to give you a guaranteed income, just in case the worst happens.”
“Wow! Thanks Mr Scrooge!”
From that day, I was a changed man. Each game was approached with the principle of out-scoring our opponents, putting them to the sword with wave after wave of attack. Sure, we lost a few, but with Cratchy by my side, we clawed our way into Europe. I didn’t even consider packing the defence, and even spent some of my transfer war-chest. The younger Cratchit even returned to playing, making a last ditch tackle in the Europa Conference final to win us our first proper trophy. As the final whistle blew, we locked eyes, and I swear he said “God bless us, every one!”
“What was that, Timmy?”
“I said, ‘Get in! It’s gonna be a messy one!”
