My Grandfather's Legacy - The Other Mourinho Takes on Portugal

Catching up with my Grandfather

I barge into the restaurant, angrily looking around for my grandfather, Mourinho Félix. The bastard set me up with an impossible set of pre-season fixtures, including one against French giants Marseille! What on earth was that supposed to do for our players and the team's morale- getting drubbed 7-nil by a team filled with African beasts?

I slowly scan the tables in front of me, trying to find that old arsehole of a man- when I get my hands on him...messing with my squad's pre-season fixture list...

There he is.

Sitting alone and looking very frail and almost sickly, my grandfather sits patiently waiting, munching on some chorizo while staring blandly out the window.

"Felix? Ola, tudo bem," I inquire, asking if he's okay.

Immediately brightening up upon seeing me, the old man beams, "Daniel, my grandson. How are you, and what is it you wanted to discuss?"

Melting at his calling me 'grandson', I completely forget why I came to ream out this senile, defenseless old man. "I came to discuss tactics, and I came to discuss my father- your son, José."

More troubled, the old man begins, "I remember the day I found out about you, Daniel. I was managing Uniao de Madeira, in the Azores, and I received a phone call from José.

He sounded stressed, troubled.

After ten minutes of uncontrollable sobbing, José told me he'd had a son out of wedlock. He begged me not to disown him. His playing career was nearing an end you see, and he knew he would not be able to care for a wife and child as he was just embarking on a managerial career.

Thus, he told me of his plan to send you to an orphanage, and I promised to keep an eye on you.

I've followed you since you were a little boy, just learning the game of football.

I've been there, following you at José's request, for everything. Your playing career, and now your managerial career. I've kept tabs on you because your father was simply too busy to connect with you, Daniel.

I wanted to set up those friendlies with Marseille and Bologna to draw attention to your work with Varzim, to let José know you're in management. He has a lot of contacts, and I was hoping he would be able to help you move up in the world of management- you're better than this shithole, Daniel. You can manage on the big stage, I know you can," the old man finishes, seemingly withered and fatigued.

Brimming with questions and flustered with anger, I manage to sputter, "You knew this whole time? THIS WHOLE DAMN TIME. I've grown up without any notion of family, yet you FOLLOWED MY CAREER and NEVER approached me? You son of a bitch. I hate our new hotshot owner, I hate you, and most of all I hate my father!"

Jumping up out of my seat, I motion to grab my phone off of the table- when suddenly the old man clutches my hand!

Grasping with the other hand at an invisible object in front of his face, Mourinho Félix's eyes roll into the back of his head, and he falls out of his chair.

"GET ME A DOCTOR," I yell to the sky...

Uncontrollable Remorse

http://static.rappler.com/images/eusebio-funeral-20140106-epa-sml.jpg
Varzim fans packed the Estadio to bid farewell to Mourinho Félix, who passed away after suffering an aneurysm at age 76.

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What have I done? I berated my grandfather to the point that he died. What have I done? What have I done?

The one man who had the answers to my multitude of questions about my family, the one man who was secretly in my corner all along- gone. Because I snapped on him. What have I done?

I saw my father at the funeral today- as is Portuguese custom, the funeral was done within forty-eight hours of death. We exchanged glances, but there was no desire nor time to speak with one another.

We have our season opener away to Famalicao in two days' time, and although I'm not feeling up to it, I must go and lead my charges into battle.

This season will be for Mourinho Félix. 1938-2014.



RIP, Grandpa.

Auto-Pilot: August-November

Still grieving and questioning the day of my grandfather's death, I've really put it in cruise control with the squad. I've stuck with a 4-5-1 for the most part, but a 4-1-4-1 has given us success against certain attacking-oriented teams. Thank god for my assistant, Magalhaes, who has helped me greatly throughout this difficult season so far.



Our form really slipped in November, and there are rumors circulating that another loss or two will put me out of a job.

Despite our slip in form in the last month or so, we're still tantalizingly close to the promotion phase spots.

League Table

Player of the Segment

25 year-old Feirense loanee Valdinho has been excellent for us thus far, scoring five goals in fourteen matches on the wing whilst boasting a league-best 7.41 average match rating. He also sits second in the league with three man-of-the-match awards, and has teamed up well with Onyeka to create plenty of offense. He has also featured regularly in the Angolan national team's Starting XI under Edgar Borges.

Personal Post - Daniel Mourinho

While I'm still very out of it, I am starting to get back on my feet. Marika, the German lesbian footballer we met while on holiday in Olhao this past summer, has decided to train full-time here in Povoa de Varzim, and will be moving in with me once her club season ends in February! It's nice to have someone to lean on at a time like this.

Looking Ahead - December

The make-or-break month of our 2014-15 campaign, we face the two teams that currently sit above us in the Campeonato Nacional Grupo B table-

We'll head to first-place Vizela on the 7th of December. While we defeated them soundly 3-nil, they've won four in a row and we will need to be at our best to win.

On the 14th, we'll host red-hot Felgueiras in what could be the most important match of our season. Felgueiras have won three in a row, and we will again need to be in fine form to take points off of them.

We need six points to solidify a spot in the promotion phase, but four points would be enough to vault us firmly back into the race.

VAMOS VARZIM

A Break for the Better

http://www.casakindlers.com/Images/Olhao%20market%2070.jpg

Marika and I walk through Olhao's open market. With everything that's happened in the past five months, my German girlfriend convinced me that a vacation to the place we first met would make me normal again.

I've been struggling on and off with depression ever since my grandfather, Mourinho Félix, died in front of me at the end of the pre-season.

Since then, I've gone through twelve boxes of Zolofts and been fired by the only club that I've ever loved.

Thus, when I was forced to resign nearly three weeks ago, Marika decided to book us a flight and hotel in Olhao, in the hopes of rekindling my downright sour spirits.

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And thus, here we are. Pacing through fruit stalls in a nameless tourist town in a nameless tourist province in a nameless European country. Life seems so pointless right now.

"Come ON Daniel, lighten up- it's thirty degrees, sunny, and I've brought a new bathing suit for the hot tub tonight," Marika winks at me, obviously trying to pull me out of my dour mood.

"Sorry 'Ika, I'm just not feeling myself today," I downplay my brutal emotional state.

Grabbing me roughly by the shoulder, Marika spins me to fully face her. "Daniel, I love you. I uprooted and moved to a foreign country for you. But I need you to snap out of this mental state and get back to being a contributing member in this relationship!"

Now there is her robotic German side. "Again 'Ika, I'm sorry. But I've had a lot happen in my life recently, you know that. You've got to under-"

Cutting me off, she snaps, "I'm done understanding Daniel! You're a young man in the prime of his life, who could be playing in Germany or managing in Portugal right now! I love the Daniel Mourinho I fell in love with in this very town seven months ago- but I hate the apoplectic Daniel Mourinho that's here in this same town with me now!"

Chest heaving and tears running down her beautiful face, she runs out of the market and down the cobblestoned street.

Some vacation, I think to myself, breaking down in the middle of the market.

What is wrong with me, I question in my head, as the tears stream down my face in the midst of this beautiful sunny day in southern Portugal.

"Eh carajo, if you're gonna cry, get away from my stand- it's bad for business," shouts the elderly man behind the crates of apples in front of me. "You're wearing a Porto t-shirt too? Get out of my sight, asshole."

Shuffling off deeper into the market, I become lost in a set of stalls with rugs hanging from clotheslines. Spinning around wildly, I begin to panic as the tears flow down my face even quicker.

"Are you alright in there," laughs an oddly familiar voice from somewhere outside this swirling hell of rugs.

"Just...urg, fine...thanks," I muster while running into the same ugly shag rug for the fourth time.

"Daniel, you look like you need some help. Here," says the voice, extending a hand from the heavens through two rugs and towards me.

I grab on, pull for dear life, and breathe a gasp of fresh air as I finally escape the tornado of rug.

Looking around for my saviour, I can't seem to find the mysterious voice.

Suddenly, I realize there's a piece of paper in my hand!

Call me Dad

http://s4.splcdn.net/images/hotels/31415/olhao-hotel-rural-quinta-dos-poetas-303129_1000_560.jpg

This place is pristine. Unbelievably beautiful, with a lush green lawn, massive pool, and beautiful 19th century Portuguese architecture, I can't help but appreciate the beauty of my surroundings.

As I look up, I see dad José Mourinho standing by the far side of the pool, sipping on a glass of wine and admiring the view from this palatial house.

"José," I barely whisper as he faces the other way. "Ahem, José?" I boom a second time to make sure the entirety of southern Portugal knew I was there.

Turning around and instantaneously smiling, José beams, "Daniel, my boy! How are you? Can I get you a drink?"

Despite my best efforts to give off an air of condescension and anger, I melt like chocolate upon his calling me 'son'.

"No thanks, er, dad." Oops.

"Listen Daniel. I know I've been an absolutely terrible father, but you must understand that I was not prepared to provide for a family when your mother became pregnant!

Your best option was the orphanage, so that's where I sent you.

I've kept tabs on you, over the years you know. When you moved to the Chelsea academy, I fought myself every day over whether or not I should have made contact with you.

Four years, knowing you were constantly within a few kilometers of me! That was torture, but I couldn't reveal myself to you because I was unsure if you knew that I was your father.

When you transferred to Norwich, I would occasionally pop up at some of your League One matches. I would sit in the farthest seat in the stadium, wear a large toque, and pretend I was deaf. But I watched you.

And believe me, I was crushed when you hurt your knee that third season. I was about to sign you to captain our reserve squad, and tell you your infant story, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.

Once you blew out your knee, I thought you would be lost to me forever, my son," he stops, looking directly at me as a single tear drips from his left eye.

Continuing, he chokes, "I thought I had lost you because of my indecision and cowardly actions.

Thus, when your aging grandfather told me that idiot Manuel Faria had hired you to manage Varzim, I realized it could be my last chance to get in touch with you.

I told your grandfather to mentor you, although I think Felix was more standoff-ish with you than I had hoped.

Regardless, I kept tabs on your progress via him and the league's terribly-outdated website.

I thought you'd done a wonderful job, and I can't understand why that young cocaine addict Evangelista fired you!"

Digesting all of this information, I only manage to stammer, "Dad, I've missed you. My whole...life," before breaking down for the second time today.

Immediately hugging me, dad whispers, "We'll get you that job back, but on one condition."

Backing away in surprise, I nearly shout, "What is it dad? I'll do anything!"

Leaning in close, he whispers, "Look Daniel, as you know, I've got some very powerful contacts in football- here in Portugal, over in England, and around the world. That petty owner of yours, Miguel Evangelista, is merely a spider on the wall. I will swat him away.

But you have to promise me, and I mean promise, that you won't blame yourself for your grandfather's death any longer. It wasn't your fault."

"But dad, why does that matter? I'm scarred for life because of that day, because of the events I witnessed in that restaurant. That shouldn't matter to you if you're concerned about my ability to run a football club!"

"Daniel, you don't understand. I had my father poisoned."

I pale immediately, and shrink away from the most powerful football manager in the world. "Dad, what did you just say?"

"I had my father killed."

"But...why," I say, beginning to shake uncontrollably with anger.

"Because he threatened to ruin my marriage, and my career. I was out with some of the Chelsea lads after we beat Leverkusen in the Champions League quarter-final, in March of last year, you see.

And yes, I was quite liquored.

We ended up at a...erm...gentleman's club. And there happened to be a nosy BBC reporter there.

Sure enough, I end up doing shots with this guy, and before I know it, there's a girl in front of me wearing a Chelsea Rakitic jersey and dancing on me!

Naturally, this completely plastered BBC reporter snaps a few pics on his iPhone, and the next day I wake up to a call from this reporter threatening to expose me to my wife, my children, and my club.

While I had him taken care of by Chelsea's security unit, he did leak the photos to my father.

Being old-fashioned, my father immediately threatened to expose me to my wife. The only way he would destroy the damn evidence was if I promised to become a practising Catholic- go figure!

I'm a proud Atheist you see Daniel, so that simply was not going to work.

I stalled and stalled, but come August, he had had enough. He was going to board a plane after that lunch with you on that fateful day, to expose me to the English media and my wife.

I couldn't let that happen- I've worked too long and too hard on my career, family, and image to let an old, bitter religious zealot ruin it all.

So, I had him poisoned," he finishes nonchalantly.

This is my father, I think to myself in an undeniably repulsed way.

"So," he begins anew, "You'll take the Varzim job?"

Surprisingly calm, I reply with a very neutral, "If I'm the man you want in charge, boss."

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I'm back, bitches.

Just in time for the Promotion Phase.