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A Championship Manager lament Dear Trisha, I recognise that legally speaking, I shouldn't be making contact with you again but I am convinced you are my only hope. Please call me to discuss the problem. I know you have my number. Yours,
I have a guilty secret. I've lived with this secret for a number of years. I thought that, given time, the problem might go away, that I might be able to carry on with my life. But no, the secret lives with me always like a ghost, its ghastly chains wrapped around my ankles, heavy weights laid upon my shoulders. Every playground around the country is a delicately balanced eco-system. The teacher, desperate for five minutes peace, casually ignores breaches of human rights. The gaggle of girls skipping dangerously close to the perimeter of the football pitch which has been marked out, not with a line, or even a jumper, but by a nodded agreement between fellow men that would put a UN peacekeeping mission to shame. The players act out their roles and, amongst it all, directing the play, is the school commentator.
In my school, the title was held by one Drew Downer. A decidedly middle class boy, Drew was an avid reader of Swallows and Amazons and he had a snooker table in his bedroom. To me, this implied considerable wealth. We shared a fascination for A Question of Sport, having lived through the golden era of Beaumont vs The World and we could often be found at break time quizzing each other from the dog-eared pages of my 1984 Sports Quiz Compendium. Drew was in the same year as me but a class above this boy from a council estate. On the football field he was the Matthew Le Tissier to my Steve Potts, effortlessly moving the ball around, letting it do the work while in the midst of our class struggle I did all the running and the two-footed challenges. On the cricket field, Downer was David Gower to my Ian Botham, his lady-like hands cutting and driving beautifully while I was trying to launch the ball into the Ford Sierras in the car park. Predictably, chalk and cheese made for a dynamic pairing. I got a taste of how the other half lived and he got to avoid my stray elbows and occasional beamers.
But Downer wasn't just a craftsman with his feet and hands. Words were also his tools. He couldn't stop himself from telling his classmates both what he was doing and what we were doing… “Downer passes the ball to Ashby, Ashby shrugs off the challenge of the maverick Trudinger and clubs it forward (is he wearing built up shoes I wonder?) to Downer. Downer feints and shoots, sending the tennis ball flying through the gap in the fence, signalling the final whistle and resulting in a Chinese burn for the offender.” Yes, he could even commentate under duress, which was a regular occurrence on account of his stick-like frame. Our particular bullying game of choice was rather clumsily named, ‘Kick The Heavy Orange Ball At Someone Smaller Than You’. I had a good thump of a right foot and could launch one of those cruciate-snapping solid rubber missiles at something approaching Mach One on a wet day. “Ashby shoots! And Downer takes a blow to the groin! Downer sinks to his knees! The crowd goes wild!. Teacher blows for full time.” There's a fundamental dichotomy at the heart of creator-based religion. Without God, I do not exist. Without me, God does not exist. Anyone, however, will tell you that your average sports pundit is at a loss without the post-match interviewee. And what a post match interview that combination of Downer and Ashby made. Downer would probe and craft his questions (a young, white Garth Crooks someone might have observed) and Ashby would respond, mono-syllabic at first but opening up towards the end of the interview once he'd got his breath back. Ashby would wax lyrical on the professionalism required in the modern playground game and artfully justify his decision to pull back Chapman by his new jumper with only the keeper to beat.
Memories fade. The inevitable march of time catches up on the ageing playground professional. He thinks about opening a tuck shop or maybe hanging around the fringes of the game as a the school caretaker. But he can't keep away from the smell of Oxy-10 and the admiration of the girls playing hopscotch. A career in management beckons for a man who finds his demons lovingly tended to by a videogame called Championship Manager. It would have been the last temptation of Christ had it been released back then. “A mighty struggle ensues and the manager escapes, at the top of his game, where we'd all like to bow out, to spend more time with reality…” And the voices start. Flicking through the Observer Sport Monthly on the toilet… "Would you ever consider a return to management?" Sinking below the water line in the bath… "Your name's being touted around with reference to the vacant managers position at West Ham, the club you supported as a boy. Would you care to comment?"
Shaving, he catches a glimpse of his face in the mirror. A little older. Not so stressed anymore. He's cut down on the booze. If the right offer came along… Dearest Trisha, You promised you'd help me make the voices stop. I'm desperate. Please call me. Yours, P.S. I love you. March, 2005
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