Under the Wing
27th September 2042
I looked out on the east coast of Australia as we left Sydney, ready for the 18 hour flight back to Heathrow. Sitting in the seat next to me was 'Liam', who I now knew as Johan Johansen. After a couple of disapproving nights with him on my parent's couch, Johan had decided to come with me back to England. As much as he was an absolute prick, he knew football.
"You see, false 9? False 9, poacher. Top, top striker, how you say, partnership." He smiled and put on his Dutch accent.
"Sexy, sexy football."
I smiled back, and looked down at my vintage PlayStation Vita. I was playing FM14, as Liverpool and I was dominating a game against Stoke when Johan leant over and snatched it off me.
"You call this football? I play, I win."
I didn't feel like arguing this time, so I fell asleep for what felt like days.
5 days later.....
I stood with Johan Johansen and Matty Wells in front of my backroom staff. It felt good to be back at Leyland Park. The players were over at the goalposts having a drink. I was fine with them, but the staff was an entirely different matter.
"Micky, Marc, Jimmy, Dylan, Joseph." I looked each of them in the eye. They were emotionless.
"It has come to my attention that some of you may have been abusing your power." This time I looked squarely at Micky Marsh-Brown.
"Some of you have taken control of my team. MY TEAM!" The staff looked alarmed at my outburst. I turned to Johan and muttered,
"Have at them."
Johan walked up to each and every one of them, and sniffed them. Like, literally sniffed him, I nearly laughed out loud. But, back to the serious part. Johan first looked at Dylan Hague, the head physio.
"You call yourself physio? I have asked town, and town, and other town. You are nobody! You not even put Band-Aid on boo boo! Leave!"
A nod of Matt Wells' head sent him on his way.
Johan turned to Joseph Kenyon, my chief scout.
"You are useless also! You not know Midhat Husic is Swedish! You can't tell me if football is round! Out of my sight, Mr Dog's Breakfast!"
And then there were 3.
Now it was the coaching duo.
"So, so, Marc Wilson and Jimmy Turner. Wilson, you Stoke player? No? No. OK. Leave. And take boyfriend with you."
Jimmy looked like hitting Johan, so Merlin escorted him out. Now there was only 4 of us.
"Now, Micky Marsh-Brown. You managed team in Feliks holiday, yes? You take team for you, yes?"
He stepped up to Micky's face. In a blindingly quick movement, he stepped back and slapped him in the face. Micky fell to the ground, mostly in shock.
"You are nothing! You worth dirt on bottom of my shoe! In my country, you would be stoned! Pole, do honours."
Now it was my turn. I walked up to Micky and handed him his resignation. We were in the middle of the pitch but I couldn't help saying,
"Don't let the door hit you on the arse on the way out, mate!"