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Chapter Thirteen
“Dougie Freedman has completed a remarkable turn around in his managerial career, as he returns to the club he spent ten years as a player at, and also a manager, Crystal Palace,” said the sports reporter.
Smythe couldn’t watch. He had wanted that job so much, it was the perfect fit for him. The club was based in London so he wouldn’t have to move, and his best friend supported the club.
What could have gone wrong?! he thought to himself. Well, now it was just a case of ‘what could have been’ for Smythe.
Walton offered to have him over and he graciously accepted. They walked back to London, the rain hadn’t taken its foot off the gas, and they rushed back to Walton’s home.
They cleaned their shoes on the way in and Walton calmly turned on the heater. He made a cup of coffee for both of them and they turned on the television.
Walton should be a barrister! thought as he gulped down the last remains of his coffee. Walton went out to his bedroom to get something and Smythe waited for him.
Walton came back with a monopoGily set, and they spent the next few hours competing against eachother, battling it out to see who would go bankrupt first.
When Walton landed on a Bond St. with two houses, they both knew the game was over. They laughed and ordered pizza before crashing out on the couch.
The next day Walton woke up Smythe who was obviously tired from the big day. They switched on Sky News and the headline was twenty sizes bigger to Smythe.
HARRY REDKNAPP SACKED BY QPR, read the headline. Smythe jumped up and told Walton he had to send in his fax straight away. Walton realised, gave him his jacket and he ran to his home in Mayfair.
After 30 seconds just trying to get the right key, Smythe finally got in and ran to the study. He sent out his resume and breathed a sigh of relief.
He read more on Sky Sports on his computer. Some of the favourites were Martin O’Neill, Ian Holloway and Roberto Martinez.
Smythe now had to play that waiting game again. He sent a text to Walton he had sent it.
Chewing nails, shaking knees, patting knees were all part of Derrick’s nervous ritual.
Have to do something! he told himself.
He went out and got some hot food for lunch. He ate it on the way home to the apartment and he had an email in his inbox. He put down his pie and read it.
It was only a message from QPR informing him that they received his application and would review it. Smythe was nervous, very nervous. He had to think of something to take it out of his mind.
He went through a list of things to do. He had this regular list of things he could when he didn’t have anything to do. The thing was, he had gone through the list so many times that it was time for a new list.
He read through the list and saw nothing that appealed to him, so he just looked through his movie collection and watched some comedy movies.
When he woke up at 6.30pm because of the ringing sound, he was startled. Smythe looked up to see the menu of the movie on the TV and a bottle of Coke on the bench.
He checked the phone. It was a number he didn’t know, but one from London. He answered.
“Hello, Derrick Smythe here,” he said nervously, waiting for the other end to reply. He took another swig of the Coke bottle to calm his nerves.
“Good evening Mr. Smythe, this is Tony Fernandes and I am the chief of Queen’s Park Rangers Football Club, would you like to have breakfast tomorrow?” the man said, with a slight South Asian accent in his voice.
Smythe was stunned and literally was speechless. He finally stuttered out an answer, sounding like a complete idiot in the process.
“Y-y-yes, sure thing,” he eventually replied.
“Would you like to meet me at Loftus Road at 9.30?” he asked.
“Um, yeah, s-sure thing,” Smythe said.
“And from there we can enjoy brunch at a café, is that okay?” Fernandes asked.
“Yes that is fine,” Smythe said, the first time he actually sounded assured of himself.
“That’s great then, see you there.”
“Goodbye,” said Smythe and they hung up simultaneously. Smythe fell back onto the couch in shock and lay there, thinking about what just happened.
After pinching himself several times, he believed what had just happened. Now he had something to do. He grabbed his suit and pants and ironed them until he was sure he was going to burn a whole through them.
Next was the shoes. His hand hurt after a long time rubbing the nugget all over the shoe, which Smythe’s face was now visible in the reflection. Now he went over to his wardrobe and looked for a suitable tie.
He picked out the best one, one that had blue and white on it to resemble the colours of QPR. Now he was ready, he threw all his clothes on a coathanger on one of the cupboards and sat down to relax.
That had wasted some time, and so he decided to watch one more movie to end the day. He was preparing himself for tomorrow, he just had to remain calm, composed and act as nice as possible.
When Smythe woke in the morning he checked the digital clock that sat on the table beside his bed. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock. 8.30am.
“Sh*t!” Smythe bemoaned and threw himself out of the bed. He turned the shower to a very hot temperature in an attempt to wake him up. He threw himself in but the warm water made him feel sleepy.
So before dropping off again, he switched it to cold water and immediately woke up. The water stung his back and he turned it back to warm.
After a couple of minutes in the shower he sat down to eat breakfast. He watched the news on TV. After he finished his toast he wacked his suit on and checked in the mirror. He now had 30 minutes to get to Loftus Road.
He hailed a taxi that took him to within a block of Loftus Road, just for privacy and he walked the rest of the way. He arrived at the doors of Loftus Road, and looked at the stadium.
It was a small stadium, yes, but a good stadium none the less. He walked in feeling nervous and excited at the same time.
Smythe waited nervously in the waiting area, before an ample, dark skinned man came out. He was in a black suit and he was very kind.
“Hello Derrick, I am glad you can make it,” he said.
“Hello Mr Fernandes,” said Smythe.
“Come with me and we can chat,” he said.
Fernandes led Smythe up the stairs into his room and they sat down, Smythe in a little chair Fernandes in a big leather one behind an oak desk, scattered with paper, mugs and pens.
He grabbed one of the sheets and slid it across the table. “I think you are the right man to take this club forward," he said.
Smythe looked at the sheet of paper. It was a contract. From Queens Park Rangers. A Premier League club. He was getting back into football management!
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