To relive Daniel Mourinho's harrowing first foray into management (2013-15), please visit my first story. I'll provide something of a summary here, but my managerial debut is certainly worth the read. For those who didn't follow, it will be a narrative-driven story with the emphasis on the characters as opposed to the oft-dreary slag of match reports. Feel free to contribute tactical or narrative ideas in the comments. Enjoy the ride!
Upon Reflection
May 1, 2018
Thessaloniki, Greece
http://www.royal-hotel.gr/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/City-Break-Thessaloniki.jpg
It's hard to believe it's been nearly three years since the accident.
After the proper night of celebration that followed our Third Division triumph away to Sao Joao, our Varzim squad eased out of the village on our rented coach. The players, staff and club administrative staff were positively buzzing, both from the cheap champagne and the momentous occasion. We'd earned promotion with a club that was financially deep in the red, with waning fan support and a trail of dead bodies — including my own grandfather, the mysterious Mourinho Felix — behind it.
The club of my orphaned childhood, of my poor hometown of Povoa de Varzim, was going to return to the Segunda Liga. It was easy, sitting on the coach following our nationally-televised victory over S.J. Ver to clinch promotion, to picture the club returning to the heights of the Primeira Liga.
Then, it all went black.
The club emerged remarkably well from the accident — I did not.
After tendering my resignation to deal with the personal issues stemming from the crash, I sank into a deep depression. As I spiralled downwards, rarely leaving the alcohol-drenched darkness of my beachfront condo, the club rose from the ashes.
Longtime Porto youth coach and former Portuguese international Nuno Capucho was named as my successor, and I, like everybody else in our small beachside town, cried when Capucho's first season — the club's first in the second division since 2011 — culminated with a surprise promotion.
In 2016-17, the club's wheels fell off in its first Primeira Liga campaign in 15 years. Varzim's corrupt board and ridiculously meagre wage budget doomed the club, and Capucho, to its fate: Four wins in 34 matches and a one-way ticket back to the second tier.
I moved from Povoa de Varzim to Greece midway through that season, once it became clear that top-flight football was not sustainable for my town's team. The alcohol was cheaper, the sun burned brighter and I was largely anonymous.
I've been here for a year, stumbling around in the proverbial weeds of Greece. Football-wise, I'm out of the loop — I'll occasionally watch the local third-division side, but that's it. The game has soured on me, and my future is not clear.
My father, José, has fallen back out of touch. After being dangerously involved in my life during my time at the helm of Varzim, he stopped answering my calls once I left football.
I'm a shell of what I once was — an ambitious task-master, one of the brightest stars in the Portuguese game — and I hate what I have become. You can check the boxes of my previous life: father José (not in contact), grandfather Mourinho Felix (long in the ground), Varzim S.C. (nearing administration and the laughingstock of Portuguese football).
I am broken.