The sun beams down on the Portuguese island of Madeira, an ice cool glass of Sangria is next to me. Omar Laska, opposite myself is the chairman of Nacional de Madeira, Rui Alves.
On a humid day, we were sitting outdoors in a quiet cafe by the beach. Alves is wearing a white polo with blue shorts and a chunky watch. I have my sunglasses resting on top of my thick, brown hair. I'm wearing a blue shirt and white shorts, the sounds of the waves washing into the sand fills the background.
''Well, what do you think?''
What do I think? I haven't felt this excited in years, not since Sergio Aguero busted the net against Queens Park Rangers, and that was three years ago. I'm trying desperately to hide my excitement, and take another sip of my drink to hide my smile.
''It's...tempting.''
''Portugal has a reputation for giving acclaim to young coaching talent. Jose Mourinho, Andres Villas Boas. It could be your name next.''
''Alright, let's do this. Where do I go to get this thing signed?''
''Nowhere, I have the contract here. Would you like to borrow my pen?''
''Of course''
So the contract is signed, Alves looks pleased as I shake his hand. I can feel the sweat on palm, as the ink dries on the pristine paper. There are a few onlookers but none seem too interested in the goings on, as Alves walks away to his car my mind drifts to Mourinho. How he took Porto to the Champions League eleven years ago. And if I can reach similar levels, or perhaps greater, take the island club to the top of Portuguese and European football...
On a humid day, we were sitting outdoors in a quiet cafe by the beach. Alves is wearing a white polo with blue shorts and a chunky watch. I have my sunglasses resting on top of my thick, brown hair. I'm wearing a blue shirt and white shorts, the sounds of the waves washing into the sand fills the background.
''Well, what do you think?''
What do I think? I haven't felt this excited in years, not since Sergio Aguero busted the net against Queens Park Rangers, and that was three years ago. I'm trying desperately to hide my excitement, and take another sip of my drink to hide my smile.
''It's...tempting.''
''Portugal has a reputation for giving acclaim to young coaching talent. Jose Mourinho, Andres Villas Boas. It could be your name next.''
''Alright, let's do this. Where do I go to get this thing signed?''
''Nowhere, I have the contract here. Would you like to borrow my pen?''
''Of course''
So the contract is signed, Alves looks pleased as I shake his hand. I can feel the sweat on palm, as the ink dries on the pristine paper. There are a few onlookers but none seem too interested in the goings on, as Alves walks away to his car my mind drifts to Mourinho. How he took Porto to the Champions League eleven years ago. And if I can reach similar levels, or perhaps greater, take the island club to the top of Portuguese and European football...