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My name is Daniel Mourinho
You may know my father, José. He currently manages Chelsea, and has enjoyed successful stints with Real Madrid, Inter Milan, and FC Porto. Nobody knows I am his son, because I came before his wife, before he was a manager, before he was anything special. I was just a lovechild.
I have never spoken to him. But he is my father.
I grew up first in an orphanage in Povoa de Varzim, in northern Portugal, before running away to England at age sixteen. Upon arriving in England, in 2005, I was taken on by my father's club, Chelsea.
I spent four years in the Chelsea academy, trying to gain access to the man I knew was my biological father. Countless hours on the training pitch, even a handful of training sessions with the Chelsea Reserve squad, but I could never even get a sniff with the first team.
I transferred to League One Norwich, where I excelled for three seasons before suffering a horrific knee injury at age 23. Despite multiple surgeries, I was never able to regain professional form, and retired from football the following year at age 24.
I've spent the past two years traipsing across Europe, seeing the sights, living the privileged life of a hostel-dwelling tourist. I stumbled across my coaching badges in Scotland while staying for three months in Glasgow, which has brought me home.
Well, that's a lie. I'm back in Povoa de Varzim because I ran out of money to travel with. Hence, I'm here. Estadio do Varzim Sport Club, the illustrious home of Varzim Sport Club.
When I was a kid in the late-90s and early-2000s, the local club was a shambles. Flip-flopping from the bottom of the Primeira Liga and the top of the Segunda Liga, Varzim S.C. could never seem to figure things out on or off the pitch.
Seems as though in my time away they've foundered into the lower depths of the Segunda Liga, and actually managed to be relegated to the poorhouse known as the Portuguese Third Division in 2010-11, where they've been mired ever since.
I was called to this shithole stadium by a man named Manuel Pedro Faria. On the phone he'd sounded like one of those tiny little Portuguese men that are so stereotypically filled with a sense of self-righteousness and superiority. I can't wait to meet him...
