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TOMI
At 27, Kiš was the best-paid footballer in Croatia. He was universally loved by everyone in the city; his performances for Croatia were nothing short of sublime. It had been seven years since he had played those ten minutes in Andorra... those ten minutes when he scored the winning goal.
He had a hell of a season last year: he single-handedly dragged Hajduk to the final... the final where Bendiš was not... the one that they could not win. Six months had past since then though.
He woke up on a cold morning in Split, and turned over to see Charlotte Moss still sleeping. This was understandable; Kiš, unlike Bendiš, woke up early in the morning to begin training, but it was the day before the match against Crvena Zvezda, and Bendiš wanted to his squad to be ready. So, while his coffee maker automatically brewed the Brazilian beans that he imported for his own personal use, he returned to his bed, and embraced the English supermodel, naked under the covers.
The TV silently turned on in the next room, broadcasting UEFA's release of the shortlist for the World Golden Ball... There would be no space for the winner of the European Golden Boot. There would be no room for his partners in crime, Teo Peši?, widely linked with a key spot in Real Madrid or Liverpool, or Pero Baši?, who, while he was injured for a solid three months, had been snubbed time and time again.
Charlotte woke up and kissed Tomi back. She was in town for a photo-shoot for an Italian brand. Kiš didn't care, it was some fancy thing, but it wasn't like it mattered. Hajduk had its own personal tailor... some famous guy who stopped once a year - Steffi Gabbano or some shit like that - and he filled up Hajduk's wardrobes well enough.
Kiš turned Charlotte towards him, and began playing with her breasts, waiting for her reaction. He didn't have to wait long, before she finally threw herself on top of him. Kiš was never the biggest man in the world. Measuring only 181 cm tall, and not very heavy, he wasn't exactly Zlatan. But what he missed in strength, he more than made up for in ability... A book of "Karma Sutra" lay by his bedside table, next to the Bible, giving the oddest juxtaposition of reading material on this side of the Balkan Peninsula. In any case, he knew exactly what he was doing, and Charlotte knew it.
It was only two hours later that they stopped. Tomi calmly walked across the apartment to get coffee, while Charlotte recovered from what was the most exhausting two hours of her life. He poured himself a cup - one sugar, little bit of crème - into a mug that must have been 15 years old, judging by its appearance, and grabbed yoghurt from the refrigerator before grabbing the newspaper from his front door. He finished reading the international news - corruption in the US Government, spying on who knows what else, release of the Hover Board (to which he made a mental note to buy one) as he finished eating, before making his way over to the balcony.
Kiš lived in a tall apartment building. It was new, near the waterfront, and very exclusive. And he lived in the penthouse, 33 floors up. He frequently had his coffee on the balcony: watching the ferries flit in and out of the harbor was a nice way to pass the time, and the view was perfect to read the paper. Normally, he sat down in the easy chair outside, but, this time, he leaned over the edge, resting his elbows on the railing. He flipped to the Sports section, always the last part of the paper that he read, and, read through the list of names nominated for the World Golden Ball. Neymar and Messi were, naturally featured.
Kiš had no respect for either of them. They were decent players, but the two South Americans were far overrated. For him, there was true European talent that played less selfishly, and were, therefore, better. It wasn't that he though they were untalented, far from it. He simply believed that UEFA was far to rewarding for selfish dribbling, something even he, with 51 goals last season, did not even attempt.
He looked through the list again... there must have been a mistake. He scored more than 50 goals last season... FIFTY. It was impossible to fathom that. He turned the page, when he finally saw it:
"KIŠ IT GOODBYE"
TOMISLAV KIŠ SNUBBED FOR WORLD GOLDEN BALL SHORTLIST
Thirty-three floors later, the mug, still full of coffee, smashed against the pavement, as the building woke to its most famous tenant's roar
ANTE
He woke late… such was his custom. For years, he worked in the evenings and through the night before sleeping until the early afternoon. This was before Hajduk became great, before his younger cousin had given him all he wanted and more. All without Ante having a clue.
Unlike his more illustrious cousin, Ante had grown up playing the beautiful game. Every morning he worked on his father’s fields, before going to training in the afternoon. School was never much more than a vehicle for him to play on the youth teams of the area. But he had been good, excellent even. There was a time when he had showed promise: he had set the club record for the U19 2nd league in assists: this, from left back. He was quick, and he worked hard, but he was never good enough to go beyond, never strong enough to play for Hajduk, as Timmy had.
So, when he finally realized that he would never play at the level required to make a living, football had taken the back seat. He went from promising teenager to average, part-time, player. Such was his life. Some people won, some people lost. It was a simple time though; Dubrovnik was one of the last frontiers for any player, and he had played there for his entire career. All fifteen years, he was a stalwart for GOŠK. Then he hit 32, and a young 18 year old made his way through the ranks to depose him, as was the custom.
There was no testimonial, no big parade for his retirement; only a small get-together of friends with the club. He was inconsequential, and this was the way it was meant to be. He retired to working in the field, or posting advertising boards in his town, some time cooking in the restaurant down the steps
Such is life.
But then, in 2014, he received a call from his local club, who asked if he was interested in coaching part time, in coaching the youth team. It wouldn’t pay very well, but it was something, and several of the academy players were still in school, so he could easily manage to have a second job in the evenings, and sleep as he was known to in the mornings. He started with the U16s, then, after earning his license, moved up to the U19s by 2016.
Every day, he slept late. He was known in Dubrovnik. But he was a solid coach. Never great, but solid is good. The academy players enjoyed him, and, at 40, he was like a father figure for them. Off the pitch he was never a positive example. When he joined the academy he could finally quit his job working in the restaurant. He could finally stop working 80, 90 hours a week just to make ends meet. It was freedom, and he took advantage of it.
It could have been worse, perhaps… he could have picked up a drug problem, but cigarettes and alcohol are never a great combination. This is known.
What was not was how drunk the academy manager truly was. His late sleeping and his simple position within the club betrayed him not, and the media in his small town could care even less. The antics of the manager of an academy team were as important as those reported by the school newspaper. So… not at all. This was not a problem at all for Ante, he enjoyed screwing the random girls that came to his games, getting terribly drunk with them in cafés, until they eventually limped back to his home and fucked.
Dubrovnik is, indeed a small town, but it is large enough that he could continue this practice for some time.
And then, the manager of the senior team suddenly died. Well… not suddenly, he was 83, it was about time that he died, but at this point, it just wasn’t ideal. The assistant manager immediately retired, as did most of the coaches. It was not a good time for the club.
So, out of the blue, Ante got a call into his academy’s office:
“Look, Ante… we don’t want to hire from outside, and, you have quite a few years in experience with managing our youth team. We like your style, and we’re also told that with the right managerial appointment, that our club could benefit from a certain affiliate club. You are, indeed, that correct managerial appointment.”
“But, who’s the club? And why would they care if I was the manager of a small southern team.” Ante was confused. He knew no one that would actually try to place him in a higher position: Hajduk had never given him anything, so he knew that Timmy was out of the question…
“NK Zagreb”. It’s a big deal for us so don’t fuck it up. Congratulations, you’re hired.”
And with that, the drunk, sex-addicted manager of GOŠK’s U19s got the promotion, and the raise, that he never truly deserved. Zagreb began sending their players on loan, and GOŠK quickly earned their first promotion, and then their second. Ante was finally doing well for himself.
So, when he woke late that morning, not remembering the previous night, he was unsurprised to notice two naked girls in his bed. It didn’t happen often, but often enough that it was a pleasant change of pace. It would have been nicer if he’d known their names, but this was his life now. Every day a different girl, where before, none at all would have come.
He left the girls to themselves, as he went to the balcony. It was a small stone villa, built into the cliff-side, but it had a beautiful view, second only to the view of Timmy’s palace higher on the hill. He looked out, before going back inside to answer the ringing phone.
“Ante Bendiš?” an unknown voice asked
“This is him, to whom am I speaking?” Ante knew most people in Dubrovnik, but this was a Zagreb number.
“We’d like to talk to you about a position we have… There is a car outside to take you to the airport. We’ll see you at 10”
TIMMY
This was never going to be an easy meeting… he knew it. He had postponed it for years, giving the three men called into his office short, small-ish contracts with small raises, designed to keep them relatively happy with their positions, without the manager being forced to hold onto dead wood. It was time though… it had been a long time coming.
“Francesca, please let them up.”
Francesca was his coffee shop waitress. She was a beautiful Italian girl who, while intelligent in every way on how to run a coffee shop legitimately
or a bit on the naughty side, was still jaw-droppingly gorgeous. He had found her one day in Como and offered her a job to move from her local job to Croatia. She picked up the language quickly enough, but there was something about her accent, that disarming accent, and those legs, that drew people to the café in droves.
Vilson Džoni, Domenico Sisgoreo, and Dražen Mužini? were, without a doubt, three of the longest standing members of the staff. All of them had stayed with the squad through thick and thin, and were, without a doubt, some of the most respected within the club. Only the assistant manager, Stijepan Andrijaševi?, had a greater claim for fame, even though some argued that his input on the matter was only due to Bendiš’s success.
The three men filed in. Only Sisgoreo, a doctor, was below 60, while both Mužini? and Džoni were pushing it late. Džoni’s grandson was in Italy, playing for Sampdoria, while Mužini? had been the head scout for nearly 30 years.
“Good evening gentlemen, this is not, as you may imagine, the time for a scouting report. Please, have a drink.”
None of them took anything. The three of them sat, silently, as they waited for the news. The sun was setting in the background. There was, however, no one who was more confident than Bendiš in any situation, and he plodded on, however unreactive the path in front of him was.
He continued, “This is regarding your contracts that expire this summer.” The kicker was what followed, “We will not be renewing them. Any of them. I can write you a recommendation for any club in the world, but you will not, unfortunately, be able to continue at this club here. It is time to step aside.”
And, with that single motion, a twang of regret hit him. This was 100 years of Hajduk sitting in front of him. These were club legends. He was firing three of the greatest legends the club had ever seen. HE was doing this… And suddenly, he hated himself, but before he could say anything.
“Fine. Goodbye
MISTER Bendiš, I’ll see you tomorrow.” An irritated Sisgoreo followed Mužini? out the door, before you could here it slamming. Sisgoreo was lucky, he had a job with the Croatian national team. Mužini?… well… Mužini? had been at the club for decades. Džoni had stayed on the balcony overlooking the café, though.
“It’s been a hell of a ride, hasn’t it?”
“Mmmm?” Bendiš muttered surprised that not all three of his staff wanted him dead.
Džoni began, “I’ve been at this club for 60 years. My son played here for most of his career, and I was so proud when I saw him lift the Champions League trophy for my club. I never thought I’d see that, you know?
“I may have forgotten to tell you, but I’m old, so you’ll have to forgive me. I’m retiring at the end of the season anyway… even if you had offered me a contract, I wouldn’t have taken it…
“So, like I said, it’s been a hell of a ride. Good night Timmy… have a nice weekend”
Timmy paused for a moment, pouring himself a measure of scotch. Then two. Then three. “Thanks Vilson, you don’t know what this means to me.”
“I know… I know exactly what it means… good luck”.
Timmy sat there, nursing a triple scotch. Training would not be fun on Monday. Surely he could call a favor somewhere in Europe, but he was not in the business of giving favors. No, Mužini? would find his own scouting desk. It would never be as cushy as the chair at Poljud, but it would be a chair, with a program, with people under him. He’d do fine.
They just weren’t good enough for him. The perfectionist contemplated the moon with the scotch as they were next to each other. Moonbeams bounced off the crystal glass, before he took it, and, already a bit dizzy, made his way down the stairs and began to pound on the piano, to the general joy of the crowd. He downed it and jumped into a quick jazz rendition, before he slowed it down a bit for Friday evening. It was then that Ana walked from the villa to the piano in a stunning black dress, her sunglasses around her plunging, provocative neckline. But if the front was scandalous, it was nothing compared to the back. The dress may as well not have been there at all, as it just barely curved up after kissing her stunning ass.
Timmy got up, and wrapped his arms around his ex-fiancée, as the rest of his band slowed the number out. They may have not been together for two years, but, looking at them together, you’d have thought that they’d been together for twenty.
The pair was laughing, “Where’ve you been all day?”
Ana responded, “Me, painting, lounging. I played tennis for a few hours.”
“You mean you weren’t in the closet all night looking for that? You are absolutely magnificent”
“Perhaps we can find out if the dress is as easy to pull off as it is to put on? Hmmmm?”
Full of sarcasm, Bendiš mentioned that they might do it on the piano before Ana slapped him lightly across the face, to which Timmy responded by lifting his beautiful fiancée and setting her down on his piano while he played one very long, very famous song.
Bendiš announced, with a naughty wink at Ana still sitting in the piano“’Let’s get it on’, by Marvin Gaye, everyone…”
MARO
Bendiš’s best friend sipped a coffee in London, as he delved on the stock exchange. It was difficult stuff, but there was a reason the two of them were rich beyond imagination. He was managing the accounts when he noticed something on the computer. Timmy was due to receive another 5% of the club on January 1st, giving him 40%. It would be a proud moment for the manager, who, as given by the fans, has been acting president for two years, and will hit a near majority stake in the market for the first time.
That being said, Maro had not heard from the government recently, and with
their incomes, Timmy and Maro were never more than a phone call away from the national bank.
Maro’s phone rang… the ringtone was an old one, a copy from an old television series which Kevin Spacey starred in… some political drama. This was the call he’d been waiting for. He dashed out the front door of the Stock Exchange, and into the black Mercedes waiting on the curb,
“He’s in the plane? Good… I’ll be there at 10”
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PS, this may seem underwhelming... give me some time for growing pains, no?
