Mistaken identity

Part 1 - My charade is the event of the season


The rain had been ongoing most of the day, as if the sky had just given up which matched the melancholy of the dimly lit room I sat in. I’ll tell you my name now, as it’s the reason I’m here. I’m Scott Brown, a footballer from Scotland. And in case you’re wondering, no, not that Scott Brown. But that Scott Brown is also the reason why I’m here today.

I’d been what you’d call a bang average Sunday League player, bouncing around teams in and around Dundee as well as over in Perth and other places you’d struggle to find even with a map. No glory, no glamour just the constant grind of driving from run down ground to run down ground on a weekend and most Wednesdays. But now I found myself sitting across from the chairman of football club Boca Juniors. This was going to be the real deal, a big gutsy move by the chairman taking on a manager with little (see: none) experience.

This was much bigger than a big break, this was colossal. Argentina. La Bombonera. Maradona. Riquelme. Samuel. Gago. Tevez, the list is endless. I was already picturing myself strutting the sidelines in front of a full house of chaotic fans bathed in the wall of noise. The history, the passion, even the kits are impeccable.

The offer was good. Not good in terms of money, but good in the sense that it’s Boca Juniors and just that name alone on my CV may have been too good to be true. But I’m not someone that looks a gift horse in the mouth.

I’d gone back home after accepting the job, packed a suitcase with the bare essentials and left for Glasgow airport without looking at what time the flight to Buenos Aires even left. Not that it mattered, I’d have slept on the concourse floor for a week waiting for the flight. This opportunity is that good.

He stared at me, fingers drumming impatiently on the polished oak desk, the sound blending with the hum of a flickering neon light. His office was as dreary as Dundee Uniteds hopes of success this season. Sure they’re in the Championship and only really have Hibs to compete with in winning the thing, but after that? Getting dicked by the soap dodgers in Glasgow, and the likes of Motherwell and Saint fucking Mirren, not to mention the snot gobblers form the other side of the road. Where was I? Oh yeah, the office with my new boss.

The air smelled of cheap tobacco and desperation. The desperation part being him hiring me to lead his team this season. ‘I don’t think I said this to you when we first spoke, but I know someone who says he highly recommends you Scott’ he said to me, breaking the awkward silence

I asked him who, not really knowing what answer I would be getting. ‘Well I know a few agents, and one who works mainly in Asia. He says he spoke to someone there when I said I’d been speaking to Scott Brown, he said his contact had said something along the lines of ‘Broony is the right man for the job, although he wasn’t sure why you’d be giving up playing for Celtic and taking up managing at such a young age’ was what I got back ’

The awkwardness crept back in. I asked who the agents contact was, but he just said it was someone I knew and that was that. He then went on to tell me I’m not going to be judged on a week to week basis, but overall at seasons end, basically telling me without telling me my job was secure for the season.

I could only nod and say I’d do my best as I leaned back in the chair trying to give off a sense of confidence. I did have some experience of playing for teams at the bottom of the footballing ladder, but would that help me out here? Possibly. He spoke again ‘I am not expecting you to win multiple league titles with my team like you did at Celtic, but your pedigree as a player will surely benefit you as a manager’

Now I bet you’re thinking ‘hang on Scott, Boca Juniors are expected to win, at least challenge for the title every year, aren’t they?’ and you’d be right in thinking that. What I failed to mention was the fact that at the airport, there were no flights going to Buenos Aires that day, but the flight I was booked on was going to Gibraltar.

Now, with me never having been to Argentina, I thought that this would be a stop over flight, you know go to Gibraltar, chill there for a day while the plane refuels and then off we go to Argentina. But oh no, I was greeted at the airport by Andy Montegriffo with a cheery smile on his face. My heart sank as the realisation was kicking in. I kept walking towards him trying to wrap my head around the mistake I’d made.

He greeted me with a hand shake and a hug saying ‘I’m very glad you accepted the job Scotty. I hope the flight was okay’

‘Aye, it was’ is all I could muster up in reply, still trying to process what was happening, or what would be happening very soon. We got in his car and drove a short way through the busy day time streets of Gibraltar, hitting every red light possible.

Andy talked about the legacy of his club, the potential to go far, the dealings he’s had with agents and players recently. None of this mattered to me, I’d been caught up in everything Argentina and Boca Juniors related, I barely heard a word coming out of his mouth. But a job was a job and management opportunities like this, especially in football don’t just turn up do they. You’ve gotta grab on to things when you can, so I did.

The thing is, as a player, not the Scott Brown of Celtic fame, but me, the Scott Brown of Sunday League infamy, I'd never been near a league title even down in the regionals. I was going to say this to him but I kept forgetting he thinks I’m someone else, someone who had actually won the league, won the cup and played for our country’s national team. Someone whose name will go down as one of the absolute greats in Celtic folklore, not the complete embarrassment of a player I looked at in the mirror on a morning. This man was desperate, and desperate men do stupid things, much like me going along with him pretending to be Scott Brown, the good one.

Back to sitting in the office, if I was a smoker I’d probably light a cig about now, but as a Sunday League player that instead of drinking isotonic energy drinks or half time oranges, I’d rail a fat line of powder and drink 2 or 3 McEwans Lager special brews and shout in the dressing room, and I could’ve murdered a pint around this time too. So I did what any sane person would do, and that was carry on the charade. ‘Aye, that’s right. A long season ahead for us, but after looking at the players you’ve got here already (a lie) I think we’ve got a good chance of progressing (an optimistic thought) if the players all put enough effort in (the first truth I’ve said to him all day)’

His eyes sparkled for a brief moment, the same way a punter at a poker table in the casino does when he sees a card he’s been wishing for turn over. ‘Good, very good’ he said and was more at ease with the way the conversation was going. ‘I’m sure there were times at Celtic where you had struggled but you prevailed, and there’s not much money here at the minute, and we get a handful of fans but they’re loyal and will give you time I’m sure’

Reassuring to an extent. But would I be here to see progression come or not? Or would the club crash and burn before then? I told myself it’s a lie, all of this. I’m playing with this mans emotions, but the truth tasted bitter and left a sour taste.

I’ve played enough football, not as much competitive football as the other Scott Brown, but I’ve had enough time on the pitch to know when to take my chances and when to let chance take me. And to be fair, it’s the only real lie I’ve ever told in my life. Despite it being a big one and one that’s got my foot in the door of football management.

As I stood up and shook his hand, the rain outside started hitting the window and it sounded like an applause. An applause from the crowd who have just witnessed me telling a blatant lie, mocking me almost.

But the hand shake was done, and with it I sealed my fate, for this season at least, and gave a promise of progression I wasn’t sure I could keep.

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Chapter 2


Lets take a step back for a moment. You’re maybe wondering how I even got offered the mangers job of a small second division club in Gibraltar despite never managing a team before. If you’re not, well I’m going to tell you anyway.

We’d been on a lads holiday to the Costa del Sol, as you do. 8 of us had gone and as a group of lads does we got split up after being out drinking and getting upto no good all day

On the Thursday before we left we found ourselves in a night club called Lisbon Falls and it was quite full for a Thursday. I can’t remember anywhere near roughly what time it was, but the scene unfolded like the end of a weird dream, somewhere between the last shot of Jager and the next bad decision.

I was talking to some fella, older than me, easily. He had the complexion of a lobster and eyes like saucers that were glassy with the booze. His eyes swayed under the dim lights of the backroom of the club we were in. His English was remarkable and he was talking of days long past and seemed like a relic from another era, talking about when football was about blood, grit, determination and deals hammered out over cheap scotch and even cheaper cigars. Now though it’s all numbers and agents.

Eventually he calmed down and took a sip of his drink. He then grabbed my arm and gave me a haunted expression, the type of look a man has after he's just walked out of a car crash. He squinted at me closing his left eye, I reckoned to focus his vision on me as he was probably seeing 3 of me in his line of sight. He leaned in, and the smell of whiskey on his breath nearly made me gip, but he patted me on the shoulder like he was petting his prized racehorse

‘Look, amigo’ he swallowed and carried on ‘No need, hick, for modesties, hick. I know you and who you, hick, are’ the hiccups were annoying me so I waved a waiter over and said 2 more pints. The man continued his drunken speech ‘People like you hardly ever show up in a place like this’ his words were slurred and sounded like they were tripping over each other, but I understood what he was saying ‘yet here he is, Celtic captain no less’

I tried to laugh it off, I’d said it enough times over the last few years, I've just got the same name as the current Celtic captain, and we’re both players, him being slightly better than me, that’s what got the biggest laugh usually. ‘Wrong Scott Brown’ I said again.

He stared back, half confused but half amused as he laughed, the type of fake laugh you do when you don’t know the other person all that well and you want to show you mean no harm. I could tell this guy liked football, he said he owned a football club, I didn’t believe that and thought it was just the type of drunken lie we all tell from time to time. But he clearly didn’t know what the better Scott Brown looks like, and I look nothing like him. But there was something about his sincerity that kept me frozen in place because he was adamant that I was the real Scott Brown.



‘I don’t usually offer jobs to people in a night club, but you’re a big deal aren’t you Scotty’ Scotty, how I hate being called Scotty. ‘You’re not my first choice for the job, that guy’s left for China’ I just shrugged and said ‘what can ya’ do eh’

‘Money Scotty. It’s always money these days’ Another shrug from me, I didn’t know what else to say. ‘But seeing you here tonight and you saying you’re ready for management, well it’s a sign from God I’m sure’

Now at this point I need to point out that religion isn’t my strong point, and despite Celic being built on the back of some Catholics, or is that the blue soap dodgers? No they’re Protestants I think, anyway I digress.

‘Never mind the local media or the agents that are trying to fleece more money out of me, Lord knows I’ve overpaid for that Robba kid’ he waved his hand dismissively, nearly knocking a drink over in the process. ‘You though, you represent everything I want in a football manager. The heart of a lion, you’ve got that. Passion. Blood and guts. Desire to put the fear of God into the opposition. You’ve got, what’s it called charisma. Yeah charisma, oh and leadership, you don’t captain Celtic and win all you’ve won without that do ya’ Scotty’

At this point I was on the verge of laughing, drunken unfiltered side splitting laughter was on it’s way. I looked over at the other table and saw my mate Jonno, who just raised his glass at me, winked and turned the other way, and as he did Motley Crue’s Kickstart my heart came on over the speakers.

The man slammed his now empty glass on the table and said ‘I need a manager. The teams going nowhere. We’ve got a good couple of individuals but no leaders. No charisma, no fire or passion. You’ll fix it. You’ve seen it all I’m sure, you play in Scotland for Christ’s sake I’m sure you’ve dealt with every level of crap there is’

I took a swig of my own dwindling beer and it was finally kicking in. Jonno winking at me told me without saying it that he’d put this guy up to this, telling him I am actually Scott Brown, current Celtic and Scotland captain, winner of a number of league titles, Scottish cups and Champions League appearances. Drunken me said to hell with it and to play along, but the other side of me was saying don’t do it, don’t play with the mans emotions. However drunken me then said that dealing with tomorrow was future Scotts problem. Current time Scott had a deal to make.

‘Aye mate, seen it all lemme tell ya’ I started, waving for another 2 drinks and carrying on ‘Saint Mirren at home, we’re down 1-0 right, the young lad Jonesy was sent off, 2 yellow cards, first was dubious at best’ I paused for effect. ‘I says to Ronny, he’s the manager at the time, I says ‘Ronny ya’ need to stick that young lad up front, I’ll find him and he’ll score you watch’ and Ronny says which young lad so I said ‘Smithy’ to which Ronny goes the defender? I says aye the fucking defender now stick him up top’

His eyes bulged and he said ‘what happened?’

‘Well Smithy gets ready and waits for the ball to go out. I’m looking round, 3 maybe 4 thousand away fans willing Saint Mirren on to beat us’ Another pause followed by a sip of my drink. I continued ’so he comes on and I give him a pep talk. I tell him he’s the best player Celtic have ever had and that he’s gonna be the one to win the game for us’ His eyes were wide like they knew what was coming. ‘So he’s on the pitch, up top with Griffiths playing off him, I’m sitting deep like an extra center half due to Jonesy being sent off. Anyway the ball comes to me, I pick it up, and….’ he cut me off

‘You played to Smithy and he scores the equaliser, right?’

‘Erm, not quite’

‘So what did happen?’

You know when a person tells a lie and then tells another lie to cover up the first lie and then another to cover the second and so on and so on, they call it digging a grave for yourself. Well that’s what I had done. I’d been drinking all day, not that that’s an excuse for it, and I’d started telling this story of some kid called Smithy just because I thought it was what this guy wanted to hear. And has there ever been a game where Saint Mirren, Saint fucking Mirren ever been leading at Parkhead against Celtic? Probably not, but then again this guy won’t ever know that or look into it. So now I had a choice, do I continue the lie and make myself look good or come clean and end the conversation right there?

I picked up the invisible shovel and kept on digging ‘Well I played it long towards Smithy who headed it down expertly, Leigh Griffiths then spooned the ball away..’ he cut me off again

‘To score the equaliser right?’

‘Erm, not really’ I said thinking how best to avoid continuing on, so I lied again, of course I did ‘Saint Mirren caught us on the break, I managed to tackle the ball off their 2 forwards but I was left exposed at the back and they scored another to seal a win for them on the day’

‘But you made the right call, getting the young lad up front, he did his part it's the others that let you down’

I nodded, thinking and hoping that was the end of this conversation. It wasn’t.

‘I’m right about you, you know your tactics and you’re definitely the right man for the job’

I thought to hell with it and played along ‘Sure mate aye, what’s the plan?’

‘The plan?’ he said and followed it up with hearty laugh ‘YOU’RE the goddamn plan Scotty’

I gave a half arsed laugh back and said ‘aye corse I am’ and ordered another drink

‘The jobs yours. Sign the paper, show up, walk into the dressing room and give the boys hell. If you tell em’ to run through a brick wall for you then they have to do it, show ‘em how it’s done’ he said with a fire and passion only someone like the other Scott Brown would show in an Old Firm game.

I looked around for my friends again, half expecting this to be a part of an elaborate joke or a prank they’ve all pulled on me, but the guys face was dead serious, eyes swimming with misguided hope, as if he was offering me the keys to his house.

‘I’ll give you until tomorrow to let me know what you think’ he said as he stood up, then added ‘you’re a legend on the grass Scotty, you’ve got everything to become even more off of it. Take my team on and fulfil your destiny’

‘Wait’ I said and stood up. ‘What team do you own, and what job is it?’ I thought might as well ask and see what he says

‘Boca Juniors, and I need someone just like you to be the first team manager’

Well fuck. Boca Juniors. The owner of one of footballs biggest ever clubs was offering me the job as first team manager. I didn’t want to start giggling like a little girl or act like I was shocked, and thought I better get myself out of this predicament sharpish so I said ‘how do I get there? I can’t get to Argen…’ he cut off

‘Details Scotty, details. Come on, you know you want it. The weather is incredible, there’s women, night clubs better than this, glory all waiting for you, I just need the right man’

He stood there arms out like he was about to embrace the future, completely oblivious to the fact that I wasn’t the more well known Scott Brown, that I’d never played a game for Celtic, or against Saint Mirren for that matter and certainly not for Scotland. Or that as far as multiple league titles go the only thing similar to that would be a run of 3 SPL’s in a row on Football Manager 2013 when I turned Dundee United into an unstoppable force.

But football, and life, is full of moments, and in this moment all of that didn’t matter. The booze had spoken, the universe had answered and Scott Brown of Dundee said ‘alright pal you’re on. Let’s do it, the next Boca Juniors manager will be Scott Brown’

‘I knew it’ he said laughing again ‘you’re gonna turn us into something good, something worthwhile’ I thought this was the booze talking again so dismissed it.

But the deal was done that night in a back room of a night club on the Costa del Sol, 2 strangers sealing the deal in a beer soaked hand shake and another round of shots.

Dawn would come far too soon, with the consequences of that booze fuelled deal I wasn’t ready for.

Chapter 3


Scottish football news:

Ally McCoist has been named the new Kilmarnock manager.

Scotland have been drawn against the English, Lithuania, Slovakia, Slovenia and Malta in their group in the World Cup qualifiers.

Dundee United have signed Oli McBurine & Wallace Duffy on loan for the season from Swansea and Celtic respectively.

The real Scott Brown puts in a man of the match showing against Red Star Belgrade as Celtic progress to the Champions League play off against Bulgarian champions Ludogorets. He also assisted Liegh Griffiths for the only goal in the SPL season opener at home to Hearts.

The only thing of note out of Rangers is they’re still looking for a permanent first team manager, and struggled in the opening game of the season at home to Hamilton 1-1.


I’d managed to get comfy waiting in the office area in a small business estate around the corner from the Victoria Stadium. It’s a small ground holding 2,000 or so fans, even Lincoln Red Imps, the country’s biggest team just about that many only if it’s a Champions League night. Not that I’m too concerned, the less eyes on me the better.

Things moved fast, nearly as fast as my first time with a woman. But I wasn’t half as embarrassed this time as I was then. This time it was all about me. This time it was business.

I’d been stood outside the door, the boss’s door for around 20 minutes. My boss for now still inside debating in Spanish something I can’t quite understand. I could see the obligatory scantly dressed young female that looks like she’d be impregnated if you looked at her flirtatiously, and she did that stupid giggle thing those receptionist types do and titled her head to the side and smiled, not for the first time either.

She disappeared and then reappeared in a flash with a tray with 3 glasses of some liquid, champagne maybe? It tastes like warm p*ss but I down it along with the other 2. As I do 2 portly men leave the room and are making their way over to me. ‘¿dónde se ha ido mi champan moza? One of the men asks to which the girl just nods my way. I smiled back in the most awkward way possible. Try me fatso. The larger man I’d never seen, he walked away, but the other was my new boss Andy.

After going through the motions of plenty of 'hello’s, thank you’s, I’m glad to be here’s, oh yes I’m sure we will’ I decided to accept that this guy has done something no one else would, or had the stones to do. And that was give me a job, an opportunity at a football club. Boca Juniors no less. Except it was different, he's given me the job thinking I'm someone else entirely.

I wasn’t sat in a club soaked in history in Buenos Aires. I wasn’t sat admiring the accolades and busts of such legendary names as Tevez, Palermo, Ruquelme, Banega or Maradonna. Not yet anyway. No, I was sitting in the hallway of an office block called Tower Heights at the slightly less successful but just as much named Boca Juniors of Gibraltar, admiring, in the absence of any notable players, the bust of the receptionist, who’s smiling at me again.

The taller of the men motioned me over and into his office, finally. He said ‘thanks for coming in today Scotty, I hope you’re ready to get to work’ and closed the door behind him.

I didn’t get a chance to speak before he started speaking ‘Right, we both know why you’re here. I needed someone with the stones, the passion and fire who will come in and oversee the team for this season. After that one of a few of things might happen. One, we get relegated and you leave. Two, we stay in the league and you leave. Three, I sell the team and the new owners sack you and you leave. Four, we do alright and I ask you to stay but you say no and you leave anyway. Or five, you stay. Any questions?’ A few actually. When is he going to click on I’m not the Scott Brown he thinks I am. Or what time does that boozer on the end of the road open? And what is that smell?!?

He continued ‘I’ve got one of my guys to look after you whilst you’re here to make it as comfortable as possible. Any questions?’ Yes, you asked me already but didn’t give me chance to speak. I’ll not bother trying again.

‘No I think you’ve just about covered everything there. When do I get to meet the squad then?’

‘Whenever you want. You can go today, tomorrow, next week whenever. The league starts at some point this month so I’d probably go speak to them before then of course’ he said laughing. A joker as well, nice.

‘Right. I’ll er, get going then?

‘Right on’

I was hopeful that the rest of my managerial career was going to be as easy as getting my first job in it was.


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Chapter 4

As I was working my way through notes and reports, the phone on my left rang on the small desk I sat at. The sharp brrrrlliinnnggg cutting through the silence like a jagged knife, it startled me to be fair. It was getting on a bit, 21:43 to be exact. The few street lights I could see in the staff car park outside casting long shadows, accusingly I thought, across the cheap blinds of the window. I stared at the phone for a moment, an uneasy kind of stillness creeping in, the kind that wraps itself around you when you know you’ve done something wrong.

And I have done something wrong, haven't I?

I picked up the receiver ‘Scott Brown’ I said.

‘Scott Broon eh’ the voice said, the accent on the Broon instantly telling me it was a fellow Scotsman on the other end. The voice growled, thick with rage that seemed barely controllable. I feared it was the other Scott Brown calling, but whoever it was I got the feeling they didn’t want to catch up.

‘Erm, can I help you?’ I said, not knowing what to expect back

The silence that followed was heavy, and almost suffocating. Then came the laugh, a low gravely and bitter chuckle

‘I think we need to have a word laddie’ the voice said. My heart dropped like a stone in a river. I didn’t recognise the voice but I didn’t need to. It was the real Scott Brown. Or the police ringing me to get me for fraud. Or at the very least it was the voice of a man that knew more than he should, a man that has put the pieces together.

‘Who is this?’ I asked, trying to sound uninterested, but I got the feeling the nervous edge betrayed me.

Another little chuckle, then he said ‘when I was asked by the agent about Broony getting that job, I had my doubts. Why would Broony stop playing for Celtic at 31 and manage that absolute sh*te of a club?’ the voice said, dry as a whisper, smooth as a blade and delivered with the venom of a snake ‘you’re good at pretending Scott, I’ll give ya’ that laddie’

I felt a chill crawl up my spine, the kind that starts at the tailbone and creeps all the way up and doesn’t stop until it’s gnawing on your nerves. I didn't even try to hide the deception, but it wasn’t my fault was it. Andy Montegriffo had assumed I was Scott Brown of Celtic and offered me the job. I’d told him enough times I’m not that Scott Brown, hadn’t I?

’What are you talking about?’ I said down the phone but my voice sounded about as a firm as a chocolate fireguard

‘Don’t play silly boll*cks with me’ the man said, a hint of amusement in his tone now ‘I know all about you, pretending to be someone you’re not just so you could get your foot in the door of this management game and no one would be wise to it. Schoolboy error Scott’

I’d stumbled into this semi borrowed identity, but never thinking there would be risks to it, and I’d convinced myself at some point I’d do well enough to be able to get through it. It seemed so naive now, pathetic even. He was right, schoolboy stuff.

‘What do you want?’I asked flatly, my voice all but drained of any swagger I had when I walked into this job and when I picked up the phone 30 short seconds ago

‘What do I want? Now there’s the question’ the man chuckled, voice low and humorless. ‘Simple Scotty, the truth. You admit to your wrong doing plain as day. And maybe at some point in your miserable little life you’ll earn your way into a managers seat instead of pretending to be something you’re not, and getting the job based off someone else’s achievements’ he paused, not long enough for me to think of anything before he continued ‘you see I know people in this game Scott. I can make it so you never work a day in your life again’

‘Are you threatening me you doss c*nt?’. You can take the boy out of Dundee but you’ll never take the Dundee out the boy.

‘Oh no Scotty lad, no threats, just promises. Maybe I let you crack on in that shi*ty job you’ve landed in, see how you do, who knows you might actually do alright in it’ he said with another half laugh ‘I doubt it though. Let me give you a piece of advice, next time you steal something, make sure the reward is worth it. You could’ve gotten a decent job somewhere, somewhere like the actual Boca Juniors, not a job in the ar*e end of the football league in Gibraltar. Look at me and where I am, maybe one day you’ll have the ability to makes things happen’

‘And who the fu*k are you anyway’

‘Oh I thought you knew? The agent your boss knows, he’s the agent for my star forward Ramazotti. I’m Steve Kean, DPMM manager and currently on route to winning the league in Singapore again. Read the press and you’ll see I’m lined up for big things over here’

I let the anger flow out of me ‘hahah Steve Kean, that bell end that stuffed it at Blackburn and who’s ran to the other side of the fu*king world where no one knows how much of a sh*te you are’

He let the silence drag, just long enough to tell me he was still in charge of this phone call. I swear I could hear him breathing down the phone before he said ‘what happens now Scott, is that I’ll be in touch. Either letting you carry on the charade or putting you out of your misery’

And with that the line went dead. I sat there, holding the phone in the dim light, feeling the cold weight of the situation pressing down on me. The silence had settled in like a thick fog and outside in the small vibrant center of Gibraltar the faint sounds of the country's nightlife felt like a taunt or an insult, I couldn’t decide.

There was no way out now, Steve Kean, Steve fu*king Kean of all people had decided to ring me and get involved, no doubt Celtic or even Scott Brown himself would be next.

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