Welcome to Glasgow
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I can honestly say I never thought I would get here. Ibrox Park, home of
Rangers FC, one of the birthplaces and monuments to Scottish football lore. While I never followed the SPFL closely, I appreciated the dominant Rangers teams of my youth which made noise in Europe.
May 14th, 2013, I think to myself from the club suite near midfield. This is the date that I become footballing royalty. As a Spanish citizen, I was able to take my UEFA coaching licenses through the Spanish FA, and understood what this opportunity meant - an inroad in the world of football.
Eleven days ago, Tyler told me a deep, somewhat dark secret he'd been keeping from me since we met back in elementary school:
Ally McCoist was his uncle. That's right, the Rangers legend and current first team manager. When he told me over the phone that night we had to be in Scotland within two weeks for some kind of meeting with his famous uncle, I thought he was having me on.
However, as the free plane tickets and official Rangers apparel arrived in the mail over the next few days, I began to realize that he was serious; McCoist wanted a meeting not only with his nephew, but
me, his nephew's best friend. Why?
I turned to look at Tyler - tall, slim, looking sharp and suddenly very in control of his life in a newly-tailored suit and sharp, conservative haircut. His usual flowing locks of hair were gone, replaced by an air of adulthood I'd never seen in him before. What could we possibly be sitting here, in one of Scottish football's greatest cathedrals, for?
"Gentlemen," booms a deep, thick Scottish accent. Spinning around in my leather chair (embroidered with the Rangers crest, of course), I turn to see Ally McCoist striding into the room.
"
Sorry for the short notice, lads," he continues as he takes a seat at the head of the narrow conference table in the suite. "
Things have been happening rather quickly here at the club and in my life, and I needed to bring in good people I could trust with some secrets."
At this, I chance a quick glance over at Tyler. Stone-faced, he seems as composed as I've ever seen him, unfazed by what his uncle is implying.
"
As you may well know, the club has come upon some choppy financial waters, due to some political malarkey," McCoist says, casting his gaze to the floor. "
Unfortunately, I am implicated in some of the accusations and, between you two and I, I am guilty of what I'm being accused of."
Tyler's gaze suddenly hardens as he looks at his uncle, his role model, the largest living legend at his boyhood club, and blurts out, "
What the hell have you done Uncle Ally?"
'He's embezzled club funds for personal gain,' I chime in, entirely unsure where the steady voice emanating from my tight, nervous throat has come from. '
Tyler, your Uncle Ally here is looking for somebody to take the fall for his financial stupidity,' I finish, earning myself a reproachful glare from Tyler and a forlorn look of surrender from McCoist.
"
Carlos you son of a -" Tyler begins.
"
- bitch is right, partially" McCoist cuts him off. "
The fact is, the club can no longer afford my contract. I can't burden the club with my wages or the impending embezzlement charge that will be surely be laid in the coming months, and I need you boys to help me."
Dirty move, Ally, I think to myself.
You bring two North American twenty-somethings over here to fall on their faces to force the club to pardon your embezzlement and reinstate you as manager.
'
We're not interested in taking the fall so you can return to grace,' I start before Tyler anxiously cuts me off.
"
I'll take the job!"
You buffoon, I think to myself. There's the rash, idiotic decision-maker I became friends with as a boy.
You're likely to get crucified by both Celtic and Rangers fans before your short tenure's up, my friend.
'
As for me, then,' I ask Ally, who is now tearing up over a cup of coffee.
"
I need you around to be Tyler's conscious, his rationale, because that's something he just sorely lacks in football," half-chuckles McCoist. "
Your official role will be interim manager of Queen's Park, here in Glasgow, if you'll so accept it."
I vaguely remember a club named Queen's Park in Glasgow, probably from an old FM 2007 save from my younger days. '
You want me to manage some two-bit semi-pro club while Tyler manages the second biggest club in Scotland?' I ask incredulously.
"
Aye, show some respect lad, Queen's Park are a historic football club based at Hampden Park, the national stadium of choice now," chides McCoist.
Quickly google searching on my iPhone while Tyler moves into another room to discuss contract terms, I shout, '
You want me to manage an amateur team in a professional league system, that draws 500 people per game in an empty mammoth of a stadium, while my best friend with no coaching licensing manages RANGERS?!?!
"
Well son, you see, Tyler just signed the last paper required for his UEFA Continental License," McCoist says with a wry smile and a wink.
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I leap out of my chair, grab my windbreaker and, as I pass McCoist, feel him grab my shoulder.
"
You're bound to Tyler, lad. You leave, he gets the axe. We wouldn't want him losing his newfound sense of adulthood now, would we," he cackles evilly.
I push past him and out the door.
What the hell have I gotten myself into...
