PROLOGUE
The flight path over the Sea of Japan was clear, but the view from the window of the private jet was a blur of emotion. I closed my eyes, leaning my 30-year-old frame against the cool leather of the seat. I was leaving behind the rolling green hills of West Yorkshire for the unfamiliar humid air of Shikoku, chasing a dream I never thought I’d be able to live out.
In my teens, I'd had the world at my feet, living the dream of all my mates. A local hero. A working class lad from the streets of Pudsey, taking the Championship by storm with Leeds United. Debuting at 16, I made 102 appearances and scored 14 goals from midfield in 3 years. I had a future as bright as the floodlights that now loom over the West Stand at Elland Road. That future was swiped away from me just as quickly as it had been attained, not for a lack of form, but for the brutal, excruciating, searing pain of a femoral fracture, early on in the 2014/15 season. The long, lonely years on the treatment table had killed the player, but it was the birth of the coach.
I was what you could call one of the early FM-inspired coaches. I played it as a kid, and by my teens, I was equal levels obsessed and intrigued by the tactical side of the beautiful game. I consumed football just as intensely as I was playing it, fascinated endlessly by Pep Guardiola's Barcelona, Vicente Del Bosque's Spain and Marcelo Bielsa's Chile.
As soon as I graduated from the academy in 2010, I launched myself headfirst into earning my stripes, coaching the U12s side, just 3 years my junior. I wanted to earn my coaching badges, I knew exactly what I wanted to be when my playing days were done. The training pitches became my classroom, learning from some of the best minds in the youth game, watching and shaping the best players of it. By the time disaster struck, my group were U16s, taking their last steps before agonising decisions were taken on their futures.
I gave up on my recovery at the end of the 2016/17 season, scarred by numerous surgeries and failed returns to action. I had continued my coaching journey and was now an established cog in the U18s machine at the club. That summer saw the arrival of Carlos Corberan from the ASPIRE academy, a man I now owe my entire future in the dugout to. A fierce mentor, his tactical passion and meticulous attention to detail inspired me. We took many first steps together, first at Leeds, then at Huddersfield, Olympiacos and finally West Brom. I had absorbed every lesson, every late-night analysis session, evolving from an assistant to a trusted confidant. But when Corberan packed his bags for Valencia, I felt the pull of home, the need to step out of my master's shadow.
I remained at West Brom, still feeling the sting of failure in Greece. But a further more brutal sting would follow. I fell victim to the pragmatic sweep by new manager Ryan Mason, keen to start with a fresh slate and staff he knows and trusts. It was a professional, polite exchange, but my god did it hurt.
After a couple months of soul searching, I was ready to get myself out there and take the reins of a club, become the main man. I'd had an interview with Halifax Town. I'd been shown the facilities, the ground and everything that made that club tick. To all the world, it seemed a no-brainer. A return to my homeland in West Yorkshire. A gritty National League campaign to really get those managerial juices flowing.
And then on the morning I had intended to give them the call to say yes, I received an offer I simply could not refuse. The lesson I had learned over the past year was that you cannot let experiences overseas get you down. If anything, they should be aggressively pursued where possible. Nothing expands your horizons in any walk of life quite like learning a language on the job, adjusting to a new culture, both professionally and away from your desk. If you fail, hard lines, football is awash with failure. Those who make it furthest in the game are those who take it on the chin, dust themselves off, puff their chests out and say "right, here we go again then, let's have it".
A few days previously, I had been interviewed over Teams for the job at Tokushima Vortis, a team in mid-table in the J2 League, based across Wakayama Bay from Wakayama, South West of Osaka. I thought I owed it to myself to at least hear them out, so I interviewed and thought nothing of it. Until a foreign number flashed up on my phone screen on that fateful Sunday morning.
They were a club adrift. Five games left in the J2 League season. Thirteen points off the play-offs, seven clear of relegation- a safe, sterile mid-table finish was assured. I took a leap of faith, a trial run. Five dead rubbers, followed by an arduous 9-month transition period in which the Japanese leagues would go from a summer calendar to a winter one. It was going to be a footballing eternity. Beyond that, there was a hefty squad build on the horizon. With just one player contracted beyond the end of January, I had to take stock of who was worth keeping, who wanted to be here and who we should be saying goodbye to.
The challenge wasn't just to coach. The challenge was to build. To construct a team from the ground up, to understand a new culture and a new language, to find players hungry enough to climb out of the second division. I had no mentor, no familiar faces, just a notebook full of tactics and a memory of what a career-defining injury felt like.
As the plane began its descent towards Tokushima, the coastal city emerging through the clouds, I gripped the armrest. I was no longer the prodigy, nor the assistant. I was the manager. The past was a scar, the present was a blank canvas, and the future was a long, arduous climb back to the top.
Tokushima Vortis. J2 League. Promotion. Nine months.
I smiled, a grim, determined expression. The East wind had brought me to this remote corner of the world. Now, I had to make sure it carried me home with a trophy.
In my teens, I'd had the world at my feet, living the dream of all my mates. A local hero. A working class lad from the streets of Pudsey, taking the Championship by storm with Leeds United. Debuting at 16, I made 102 appearances and scored 14 goals from midfield in 3 years. I had a future as bright as the floodlights that now loom over the West Stand at Elland Road. That future was swiped away from me just as quickly as it had been attained, not for a lack of form, but for the brutal, excruciating, searing pain of a femoral fracture, early on in the 2014/15 season. The long, lonely years on the treatment table had killed the player, but it was the birth of the coach.
I was what you could call one of the early FM-inspired coaches. I played it as a kid, and by my teens, I was equal levels obsessed and intrigued by the tactical side of the beautiful game. I consumed football just as intensely as I was playing it, fascinated endlessly by Pep Guardiola's Barcelona, Vicente Del Bosque's Spain and Marcelo Bielsa's Chile.
As soon as I graduated from the academy in 2010, I launched myself headfirst into earning my stripes, coaching the U12s side, just 3 years my junior. I wanted to earn my coaching badges, I knew exactly what I wanted to be when my playing days were done. The training pitches became my classroom, learning from some of the best minds in the youth game, watching and shaping the best players of it. By the time disaster struck, my group were U16s, taking their last steps before agonising decisions were taken on their futures.
I gave up on my recovery at the end of the 2016/17 season, scarred by numerous surgeries and failed returns to action. I had continued my coaching journey and was now an established cog in the U18s machine at the club. That summer saw the arrival of Carlos Corberan from the ASPIRE academy, a man I now owe my entire future in the dugout to. A fierce mentor, his tactical passion and meticulous attention to detail inspired me. We took many first steps together, first at Leeds, then at Huddersfield, Olympiacos and finally West Brom. I had absorbed every lesson, every late-night analysis session, evolving from an assistant to a trusted confidant. But when Corberan packed his bags for Valencia, I felt the pull of home, the need to step out of my master's shadow.
I remained at West Brom, still feeling the sting of failure in Greece. But a further more brutal sting would follow. I fell victim to the pragmatic sweep by new manager Ryan Mason, keen to start with a fresh slate and staff he knows and trusts. It was a professional, polite exchange, but my god did it hurt.
After a couple months of soul searching, I was ready to get myself out there and take the reins of a club, become the main man. I'd had an interview with Halifax Town. I'd been shown the facilities, the ground and everything that made that club tick. To all the world, it seemed a no-brainer. A return to my homeland in West Yorkshire. A gritty National League campaign to really get those managerial juices flowing.
And then on the morning I had intended to give them the call to say yes, I received an offer I simply could not refuse. The lesson I had learned over the past year was that you cannot let experiences overseas get you down. If anything, they should be aggressively pursued where possible. Nothing expands your horizons in any walk of life quite like learning a language on the job, adjusting to a new culture, both professionally and away from your desk. If you fail, hard lines, football is awash with failure. Those who make it furthest in the game are those who take it on the chin, dust themselves off, puff their chests out and say "right, here we go again then, let's have it".
A few days previously, I had been interviewed over Teams for the job at Tokushima Vortis, a team in mid-table in the J2 League, based across Wakayama Bay from Wakayama, South West of Osaka. I thought I owed it to myself to at least hear them out, so I interviewed and thought nothing of it. Until a foreign number flashed up on my phone screen on that fateful Sunday morning.
They were a club adrift. Five games left in the J2 League season. Thirteen points off the play-offs, seven clear of relegation- a safe, sterile mid-table finish was assured. I took a leap of faith, a trial run. Five dead rubbers, followed by an arduous 9-month transition period in which the Japanese leagues would go from a summer calendar to a winter one. It was going to be a footballing eternity. Beyond that, there was a hefty squad build on the horizon. With just one player contracted beyond the end of January, I had to take stock of who was worth keeping, who wanted to be here and who we should be saying goodbye to.
The challenge wasn't just to coach. The challenge was to build. To construct a team from the ground up, to understand a new culture and a new language, to find players hungry enough to climb out of the second division. I had no mentor, no familiar faces, just a notebook full of tactics and a memory of what a career-defining injury felt like.
As the plane began its descent towards Tokushima, the coastal city emerging through the clouds, I gripped the armrest. I was no longer the prodigy, nor the assistant. I was the manager. The past was a scar, the present was a blank canvas, and the future was a long, arduous climb back to the top.
Tokushima Vortis. J2 League. Promotion. Nine months.
I smiled, a grim, determined expression. The East wind had brought me to this remote corner of the world. Now, I had to make sure it carried me home with a trophy.
