Fulham - The Grass Ain't Always Greener

[JonWo]

Hi,

This is a story that I began back in 2008, which is still going strong today. It features Fulham Football Club and is a bit of a long read, but one that I have really enjoyed writing and one that I hope you guys all enjoy reading.

[JonWo]

I had met many weird and wonderful characters during my esteemed managerial career. Whether it be Roman Abramovich at Chelsea, Peter Hill-Wood or even Dave Allen - I thought I had seen it all. However, nothing could have prepared me for the expectations of my new boss, Mohammed Al-Fayed.

The Egyptian owner of Fulham had broken the bank to steal me from under the noses of Manchester United for what I said would be my final managerial job before retiring. I had arrived at Craven Cottage amidst huge publicity and media hysteria, people were shocked that I had opted for Fulham over Manchester and I must admit, the overriding factor had been the amount of money on offer in London.

I felt that after such a long, hard career in which I had lived and breathed football, I was entitled to cash in on my reputation as a manager who can get the best out of players and win trophies. But that didn’t for one second mean that I wouldn’t be whole-heartedly committed to the Cottagers.

After wading my way through the hordes of journalist and photographers I finally made it into the ground and was greeted by Mr. Al-Fayed who shook my hand and lead me to the press conference room where I would be given my official unveiling. However, little did I know that the press conference would be less about me and more about Mr. Al-Fayed and his vision for the future of the club.

Al-Fayed said that he had overseen the development of Fulham from lower league no hopers into an established Premier League team. However, he felt that in recent years the club had become stagnant and that he was tired of the continual battle to stave off relegation. He told the hushed news conference that he was prepared to do whatever it takes to make Fulham into a major force, not only in England, but Europe as well. That, he said, was why he had brought the best manager in the world to Craven Cottage.

He continued, saying that he wasn’t a gambling man, but he was prepared to foot the financial bill for a major overhaul of the playing squad. “I have always been a winner, in life and in business. However, at the moment my football club does not reflect this. In order to address this problem I am going to lay my cards on the table and put my unwavering faith in Jonathan Wolstenholme”.

Later that evening, I met up with Mr Al-Fayed at the Hilton Hotel in central London, he wanted to further enlighten me on his plans for the club. I must say I was a little perturbed about the lack of input I was having on the direction of the club, having previously been given free reign to do things my way in other managerial jobs. But I guess for the amount of money he was paying, it was only fair that I listened to what he had to say.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to hear, “Top four this season, Champions next, that is what I expect, deliver me this and my legacy at Fulham will be cemented”. It seemed a ludicrously optimistic expectation, but he didn’t stop there “You will have my support in the transfer market, but I have my own ideas about the type of players we should be looking at…”.

“Just a minute…” I intervened “My track record as a manager should tell you all you need to know, I and I alone, will have the final say on transfers, as is stipulated in my contract”. Mr Al-Fayed stared at me and smiled “Let me finish, I believe that in every country there are a handful of good players and even fewer truly great players. My vision for the future of Fulham is that we only sign great players. What this will mean is that we bring in only the cream of the crop from each nation, it is something that is unheard of in football, it will be innovative and maybe even a bit of a risk, but if anyone can pull it off, I believe you are the man for the job”.

I began to wander if I shouldn’t have just taken the easy route and gone to Old Trafford, although, I have to admit I was intrigued by Mr. Al-Fayed’s plan. It certainly wasn’t going to be easy and it would cause huge upheaval in the dressing room, but after such a successful career, I wanted to go out with a bang. “Let’s do it” I said.

Chapter 1: Where to begin?

The first day back for pre-season was an unusual one for me, after briefly meeting the players - most of whom would not be featuring in my long term plans - I told my assistant Les Reed to put the squad through their paces, whilst I got to work drawing up my list of transfer targets.

Back in my office, I began despatching e-mails, faxes and making phone calls to other clubs, seeing which players were available and at what price. Mr. Al-Fayed had promised me strong financial backing but even I knew this wasn’t a blank cheque, renovating the whole squad would be hugely expensive, so I would have to be savvy with my wheeling and dealings.

After a fruitless day in my quest to bring in new players I returned to my apartment and got ready for a night out. I hadn’t become such a successful manager by being friendly and had made a lot of enemies along the way, so maybe it wasn’t unsurprising that a few of my old adversaries were unwilling to do business with me now that I needed a favour.

That wasn’t going to stop me heading out to celebrate my new job though and I was off round to my friend Frank’s house to play poker with the boys. It was nice to get away from the stresses of work for a few hours, but as the night rolled on and the drink flowed, the stakes became higher. “Hey Jonathan” Frank said “Your on a bit of a hot streak tonight, you’ve won most of the hands, how about we up the ante?”. “What do you have in mind?” I said. “Right, next hand, winner takes all, if I win, I get everything you’ve won tonight and… your Bentley!”. “My Bentley? What’s in it for me if I win?”

“If you win Jonathan, I will do you a favour that will help you in your new job greatly”. I looked at him bemused, what could he do to help me at Fulham, “If you win, you can have my young protégé Giovanni on loan for the season, he’s a Mexican kid who is tipped as the next Ronaldinho”. I thought about his offer for a moment, “Game on Mr. Rijkaard” I said with a smile.

As I left Frank house, I couldn’t have been happier, you see whilst he may talk a good game, he’s useless at cards. However, he was a man of his word and I now had the first new signing of my Fulham revolution, but there was still lots of work to be done.

I’d never really enjoyed all the protracted talks over transfers, contracts and dealing with slimy agents, but over the next few weeks, that was all I did. Suffice to say, I wasn’t particularly enjoying my new job but I knew that if I put in the hard work now, then I would reap the benefits and get back to doing what I do best - coaching - in time for the start of the new season.

Whilst all this was going on, Les continued to take training and due to my absence from the training field there was growing speculation in the media that I had been brought in simply as a figure head, a poster boy for the club to try and attract some free publicity.

I’d never had a particularly good relationship with the media, ever since they’d printed stories accusing me of tapping up players whilst at Arsenal, so I got my head down and carried on with the job at hand.

During those weeks of pre-season I finally began to make some breakthroughs in the transfer market. The rest of the signings came through more traditional routes than poker games and at times I felt like I was paying over the odds. However, I also managed to bring in a few bargains and on the whole I was very happy with the way things were taking shape.

New Boys:

Chris Burke (Rangers) - I’ve got big hopes for Chris Burke, I don’t think Walter Smith realised how much potential this kid has. He’s already a full Scotland international at the age of 23, has pace to burn and is a great dribbler of the ball. I see him as someone who can help us unlock defences when we need a goal and if I can get him firing on all cylinders, the 2.8 million I paid for him will look like a great piece of business.

Alexis Norambuena (Union Española) - I’ve really trusted my head scout Andy Haynes-Brown on this one. He tells me Norambuena is a tough tackling, no-nonsense central defender who will give us some real fight at the back. I didn’t have time to get out to Chile to watch him play, but I’ve known Andy for a long time and he hasn’t failed me yet. After watching a few videos of him in action I gave the go ahead for the 1.3 million signing and I’m looking forward to seeing him play in the flesh.

Marco Streller (Basel) - Twenty-six year old Streller has all the necessary attributes to be a real success in the Premier League and I am shocked that know-one has taken a chance on him yet. He’s a technically sound forward in the Robbie Keane mould and a full Swiss international. His former manager Christian Gross told me that Streller has the ability to go all the way to the top and that he was upset with the Basel hierarchy for accepting our 3.4 million offer, as he thinks the player is worth twice that amount.

Henrik Larsson (Helsingborgs) - He may be thirty-five years old, but on the evidence that I have seen Larsson still has enough ability to score goals at this level. He’s gained legendry status at just about every club he’s played for and I’m hoping he can do the same here, as well as mentoring some of the younger strikers at the club.

Hugo Rodallega (Free Agent) - A trialist who really impressed me and Les during pre-season, so much so that we have snapped him up on a three year contract. The Ecuadorian youngster has an uncanny ability to find the back of the net and also possesses a strong turn of pace. As we already have quite a few talented forwards, he may have to bide his time on the bench but I know I will be able to rely on him should the need arise.

Mauro Zarate (Al Sadd) - I remember seeing Zarate play on loan at Birmingham last year and was blown away by his all round play and eye for the spectacular. Quite why he joined Qatari club Al Sadd, I don’t know, but he jumped at the chance to join us after our 1.8 million bid was accepted. I can see him and Larsson being a real force to be reckoned with in the league this year and I’m excited to see how their partnership will develop.

Sabri Sarigolu (Galatasaray) - I felt that I had been held to ransom over a few players and the Turks really did a number on me here. Sarioglu cost 7 million, but nonetheless he has the potential to be a world class player. He is exactly what I like in my full backs, he’s not just there to defend but he will get up and down the touchline all day and has a great engine on him. If I can get him and Burke to click down the right flank, then they will be able to supply the killer balls to the strikers.

Fernando Meira (Stuttgart) - Meira’s a really cultured defender who will bring some stability to our new look back four. He’s a seasoned international with Portugal and has been a mainstay in the Stuttgart team for the last five seasons. He’s someone I tracked at Arsenal for a few seasons but his team were never willing to let him go. I was more than happy to shell out 6.2 million for his services and think that he will be a big hit in the Premier League.

Although we have nearly 25 million worth of new talent at the club, I’ve also brought in Armand Traore on loan, the young French full back will be competing with Dejan Stefanovic for the left sided berth. I feel his signing is a major coup for the club, I spent many years at Arsenal watching him mature into a supremely talented defender and feel that he is now ready to show what he is capable of at senior level.

So, the paper work filed, suit put back in my wardrobe, I pulled on my shorts and headed for the training ground the next day. After posing for photographs with the new boys, I went and introduced them to the squad. It was certainly an eclectic bunch of players, lots of different languages would be spoken in the dressing room, but I was confident I could get them playing as a team and speaking the universal language of football.

The weeks passed and the new season was now only days away, despite some early problems, we are now looking like a strong unit. Mr Al-Fayed came down to the training ground yesterday to check on our progress. “How are things coming together?” he asked, “The players are beginning to develop an understanding and I think you will be pleasantly surprised with them this season” I replied, “It won’t be like any Fulham team you’ve seen before, that’s for sure”.

He left smiling and seemed happy with what he had seen. Whilst the players looked good in training, I could not be sure how they would adapt to life in the Premier League until they had a few games under their belt. However, we wouldn’t have to wait very long, just over a week from now the new campaign will get underway with a trip to Middlesbrough.

It will be vital for my multi-national squad to get off to a strong start if we are to fulfil Mr. Al-Fayed’s lofty expectations and gatecrash the top four. I’ve always liked a challenge and this one could prove to be my biggest yet.

[JonWo]

Chapter 2: More Questions than Answers

The next week went by in a flurry and before I could even pause for thought, it was Saturday. Me and my players had been up early to make the long journey up to Teesside where we would take on Middlesbrough. On the coach on the way there I outlined my plans to the players, telling them we would need to play a high pace game and really attack Gareth Southgate’s side from the off.

After uttering each of my instructions there was a gabble of noise as the various interpreters relayed my messages to the players in their native languages. As the coach pulled up at the Riverside Stadium, the players were greeted by a crowd of up to a thousand travelling fans who had gathered outside the ground waiting for a glimpse of their new heroes. This was unprecedented at Fulham, never before had their been such a mood of optimism around the team whilst they had been in the Premier League.

After signing a few autographs and posing for photographs, we eventually made our way to the away team dressing room. I told the players to go and warm up on the pitch and Les pulled me to one side “Can I have a word boss” he said “It’s Streller boss, he says he’s been feeling some tightness in his hamstring, it might be best to start him on the bench in this one”. It was a setback and when I announced my starting line up, I told the dejected looking Swiss ace that it was for his own good and that I would try and give him a run out late in the game to try and avoid doing any further damage to his hamstring.

As the midday kick off approached, I could hear chants of ‘Come on Fulham’ as I stood in the tunnel, the fans were certainly doing their bit for the cause and were even drowning out the home supporters. Such was the level of interest for my first game in charge of the Cottagers that Sky Sports had chosen it as the game to kick off their live coverage of this years Premier League campaign.

I delivered my final instructions to the players and we then made our way out onto the field to a vibrant reception from both sets of fans, I shook hands with my opposite number Gareth Southgate and then took my place in the dugout.

Middlesbrough vs. Fulham, Riverside Stadium

I was very pensive as the game got underway, my team seemed to struggle with the pace and style of play of Middlesbrough and it was no real surprise when they took a seventh minute lead through Jeremie Aliadiere. “Keep your heads up lads, stick to the game plan” Les shouted as the players trudged back to the halfway line for the restart.

This wasn’t the start I was looking for, but as the half wore on we began to grow in stature and had some good chances to draw the game level, but just lacked that killer instinct. I held back at half time where I would normally have let rip at the players, I had to treat them with kid gloves at this moment in time as this was all still new to them. Nonetheless, I made two changes, with Streller and Volz coming on for Larsson and Davies.

I left the last words to Les, who delivered a rallying cry to the players as they went out for the second half. His words must have struck a chord, as they came out for the second half and went for the jugular. It didn’t take long for us to draw level, we caught Boro on the hop with a lightning quick counter attack, which saw Giovanni run all the way from the halfway line before calmly slotting the ball past Mark Schwarzer.

We had our tails up now and I was confident we could go on and get the win, but Boro dug in and buoyed on by the home crowd regained the lead as Aliadiere claimed his second goal of the match. We were unable to pull level a second time, despite the best efforts of Streller and Zarate, my first game in charge had ended in defeat.

Full time: Middlesbrough 2 - 1 Fulham

I couldn’t hid my frustration from the players at the end of the game, but tried to remain calm and pointed out that we were made to pay for two defensive lapses in concentration. I left Les to take the players through their warm down as I headed for the post-match press conference.

I took my seat as the journalists and reporters began asking me questions about the game and my first month in charge at Craven Cottage.

Daily Telegraph: So Mr Wolstenholme, a 2-1 defeat, not the ideal start to your career at Fulham. Where do you think it went wrong today?

Jonathan Wolstenholme: I think the players performed well in patches and I’ve seen a few things that give me plenty of hope for the rest of the season. I’m not unduly worried at this moment in time, it was just a matter of our defence switching off at crucial moments and some quality finishing from the young lad Aliadiere.

Daily Express: Giovanni scored a wonderful goal this afternoon, how happy are you to have a player of his quality on board?

JW: I am delighted to have Giovanni at the club, I think he has the talent to go all the way to the top. I can see him being a massive player for us this season and you saw today exactly what he is capable of with his goal today.

News of the World: You say your not unduly worried, but is it fair to say that after such an overhaul of the squad and a lot of financial investment, that you are under pressure to get results right away?

JW: Every manager is under pressure but I am confident that this team will come good sooner rather than later. We’ve got a lot of new faces in that dressing room, but we also have a lot of talent. Mr Al-Fayed understands that it will take a bit of the time for the players to gel together as a team but I’ve always thrived under pressure and have assured the chairman that the team is heading in the right direction.

Daily Star: Mr Wolstenholme, what do you have to say about the speculation regarding the clubs transfer policy. Some reliable sources have come out and said that it is the chairman and not yourself who is choosing the players that the club signs. Could this be the reason that they underperformed today?

JW: Who are these reliable sources? That’s a ridiculous statement, I am one of the most successful managers in English football and have always been in charge of my clubs transfer policy. Myself and Mr Al-Fayed have a very close working relationship but it is me, and me alone, who has the final say on transfer dealings. Next question.

Daily Mail: You have brought in a few players who were previously unheard of on these shores - the likes of Alexis Norambuena and Hugo Rodallega - are these players who you see playing a major role this season or are they an investment for the clubs future?

JW: They’re both full internationals with Chile and Colombia so if you’d done your research you would be aware of them. They have both come in on three year deals and I expect them to play their part in what I hope will be a very successful season for the club.

Daily Mirror: So what are your ambitions now that you have joined Fulham, do you aim to take the club into Europe or will this season be a rebuilding job after many years fighting off relegation?

JW: I see a European place as a realistic aspiration for this season, I am fully aware that it will not be easy and we still have a long way to go, but European qualification is definitely my aim for this season.

With that I was ushered away by the Fulham Public Relations Officer and driven back to my home to reflect on my first game in charge. Not the start I had hoped for and there was a hell of a lot of work still to be done. I can’t blame people for not being very impressed with our first showing but I am convinced that things can only get better.

[JonWo]

Chapter 3: What a Mess

I was back in my office on Monday morning bright and early, I had no reason to panic but I knew that certain problems needed to be addressed, like the defence, which had looked so fragile on Saturday. I asked Les to assign one of the coaching staff to work specifically with the defence and he came to me with the name John Murtough.

He had been with the club for a few years and after speaking to him and listening to some of his ideas and theories for a while, I entrusted him with trying to turn our back four into a cohesive unit.

I kept a watchful eye over John for the rest of the week and was really impressed with his passion for the job. He had the players doing extra sessions; early in the morning and late at night. That was exactly the kind of commitment I looked for in my backroom staff and as a result, I offered him an improved three year contract.

The defence were going to have to be watertight in our next match; the fixture computer hadn’t been kind and had pitted me against the side I could very well have been managing myself, the champions of England - Manchester United.

Still, I knew we had nothing to lose, we were the underdogs and despite my spats with Sir Alex Ferguson whilst in charge at Arsenal, I respected the man but also felt like I knew him and his team inside out. Attack may well be our best form of attack in this game because there are some things and certain players that you just cannot defend against and Manchester United possessed two such players, with the likes of Wayne Rooney and Cristiano Ronaldo, who we would need to play close attention to.

Despite our opening day loss, the players were really pumped up for this fixture as we sat in the dressing room prior to kick off. “Traore!!” I barked at the young Frenchman “Today is your day to prove what you are made of, I want you to mark Ronaldo out of the game. I don’t care what it takes, take his legs, draw the foul, the over-reaction, I don’t care. Just make sure he doesn’t get past you and deliver the ball into the box”. “Yes, boss” he replied.

The defeat to Middlesbrough was still fresh in my mind and one of the overriding feelings I had had in that match was that the team lacked leadership on the field, so I spoke to Les and he said that he thought Fernando Meira possessed all the necessary characteristics and would be an ideal choice for the captains arm-band.

Just before we took to the field, I told my players that they could really show they meant business with a positive result today. I told them to listen to the Craven Cottage crowd, who by now were in full voice and waiting for the game to begin. “When you go out onto that field, you are representing a team with a proud history. Fight for your lives and never give up, if you can do this, then I cannot ask for anymore…”

Fulham vs. Manchester United, Craven Cottage

And with those words, which I hoped would spur the players on, the game got underway. I prayed that my players would respond, but after only five minutes we were scythed open by what I have to admit was a majestic team move by United, culminating in Louis Saha lobbing the ball over a hapless Antti Niemi and making it 1-0. A disastrous start.

We were guilty of being slow starters, I could forgive my team for that, we were after all playing one of the best teams in the world. However, as the half wore on and wave after wave of attack peppered our goal mouth, I began to lose patience. There wasn’t that much of a gulf in class between the two teams on paper, we were simply not performing and were lucky to go in at the break only one goal down.

Still, trying to regain my composure, I spoke calmly, yet passionately to the players and urged them to try and find an extra gear that would help us unlock the United defence. Dissatisfied with the anonymity of Clint Dempsey and Henrik Larsson in the first half, I gave debuts to both Marco Streller and Hugo Rodallega, in the hope that they would make a name for themselves and help us to turn the tide.

Sir. Alex must have also delivered a stirring team talk to his players at the interval as they came back out with the bit between their teeth in the second half. Try as they may, my players were being overcome by the superior ability of the Red Devils and Saha grabbed his second goal of the game within ten minutes of the restart.

“Push, push forward” I implored, as the crowd let our a roar trying to gee the players on. As the game progressed, the cheers quelled and the mood around Craven Cottage dampened. There was no sign of a resurgence and we were being well beaten. This was compounded in the last ten minutes when Saha grabbed his third goal to give the Reds a resounding 3-0 victory.

Full time: Fulham 0 - 3 Manchester United

There was a rye smile on Sir. Alex’s face as he shook my hand at the final whistle. He was one of my greatest adversaries during my time at Arsenal and clearly couldn’t hide his delight at inflicting such a humiliating victory on my new look side.

Try as I did, I couldn’t manage to put a brave face on things and in the dressing room after the game the teacups began to fly. “Sarioglu! Seven million for that rubbish!? You looked like an amateur out there boy, buck up your ideas. Traore, you were given the run around. Your nowhere near as good as you think you are. Norambuena and Meira… disgraceful, get out of my sight.”

The boys looked shell-shocked, but I wasn’t finished there “Larsson, do you have the balls for it anymore or are you just looking for one last big pay-cheque? I am giving my all for this club, but I don’t think the rest of you are showing the same level of commitment. I want today to be a lesson to you all. You were an embarrassment on that pitch; not only to yourselves, but to me and more importantly, to the fans. I want you all to go away and take a long hard look in the mirror and try and work out if you’ve got the guts for this fight”.

I stormed out of the dressing room, with Les following closely after “Boss… boss… Jonathan!! Stop! You can’t be going off like that, sure, today was poor but their a new bunch of lads and things are going to take time. Do you really think that barracking them is the best way to go about it?”. Even after two games, I was beginning to feel the pressure and wandering what I had got myself into.

I have quite a few regrets in my life, but what I was about to say is one that will trouble me until my final days “Les, your either with me or against me. That was an absolute shambles out there today, where was the defence? Where was the attack? We were toothless. How can you defend that?” I screamed. He refused to stand down and that only made things worse “You know what, I have given years to this club and never been spoken too like that. So you’ve won a few trophies and enjoyed some success, who the hell do you think you are?”.

A sudden calm came over me “Les, you know what, I think you’ve run your course here. You’re a fifty-four year old man with outdated ideas and from what I’ve seen, your not up to the job of coaching at a Premier League football team”. He looked shocked “What are you trying to say?” he said. “You know what I’m saying, there is no room for sentiment in this game, it’s survival of the fittest. Collect your cards on Monday, this club has outgrown you”.

Les was a decent man and to this day, I regret firing him. Nonetheless, I had dug myself a hole and would need to get out of it. I had to regain my perspective, we were only two games into the season; no need to make a mountain out of a molehill yet. But things were not going my way and with my right hand man now out of the picture, I would have to bare the workload of revitalising my squad, as well as looking for a new assistant. What a mess.

[JonWo]

Chapter 4: All My Fault

Oh my goodness, what had I done. I bolted awake out of my drunken stupor and immediately recollected what had happened the night before. I had fired Les. The man who had been my confidant, the man who had welcomed me with open arms in my new job and the man who was Fulham through and through. How could I have been so stupid?

This was a completely new squad, the players weren’t going to gel overnight and, yet, I had taken it out on the one person who lived and breathed this club and would do anything to make it a success.

I had to face up to the fact that I had overreacted, Les was a man who would tell you the truth, no matter how much you didn’t want to hear it. He was a man I could not do with out. I’ve never been one to own up to my own shortcomings with grace, but I knew I would have to swallow my pride on this occasion. So I picked up the phone and dialled Les’s number.

The phone rang… and rang… and rang, then it went to voicemail. I slumped in front of the television and turned on Sky Sports News. I was a mess, how had I come so far in my career and then fallen so suddenly?

And then the yellow bar emerged at the bottom of the screen and my heart sank “Les Reed appointed new manager of Queens Park Rangers”. He hadn’t stood on ceremony, that’s for sure. He had made the short journey across London and replaced John Gregory at Loftus Road. For a moment I was angry and then I realised, I had pushed him away, it was my fault.

As the day progressed, I realised I had to let go. I phoned in sick at work, leaving goalkeeping coach Dave Beasant in charge. However, I was quickly on the phone to a few of my old buddies, seeing who could fill the vacancy, when a certain name sprang to mind.

I had admired the work he had done at Bolton and the tactical awareness he had instilled in what was a fairly average bunch of players. I asked the club secretary to call Ricky Sbragia and tell him that we were interested, no, his old pal Jonathan was in need of a knowledgeable left-lieutenant to help him steady the ship at Craven Cottage.

I convinced Mr. Al-Fayed to throw in an extra thousand pound a week and sure enough Ricky answered my SOS. He was exactly the kind of authoritarian figure we would need on the training ground to help try and turn the clubs fortunes in the absence of Les. He got to work straight away and as I walked around the training facilities I was very impressed with the discipline he was instilling in the team. They looked far better drilled in defence and the strikers finally had a smile on their face as they enjoyed some shooting practice.

I, however, was not enjoying myself as much. I knew that if we succumbed to our third straight defeat of the season against Wigan on the Saturday then major questions would be asked of me. Therefore, I holed myself up in my office watching and then re-watching videos of their first two games of the season.

They had beaten Everton and Birmingham and were in second place in the league. Despite the fact that it was only my third game, I had already dubbed it a ‘must win’ fixture.

As we made the journey up to Lancashire to tackle Chris Hutchings side the mood in the camp was at an all time low. Barely a word was spoken. The hours passed and then I stood up “Lads, it hasn’t been the easiest start for any of us. We’ve struggled, but I want you all to know that I have the utmost faith in you. Words have been said and were all men, we can deal with that and put it behind us. What I want from you today is some passion. Man Utd, may have been a bridge too far, too early. But Wigan, they’re nothing special. If you can put a performance together today, then you have more than enough ability to beat them. The key word is ‘belief’. Believe and show what your really made of and mark my words, we will win today”.

“Come on lads!” Ricky added passionately. No sooner had I delivered my speech, than we were stepping out at the JJB Stadium. For the first time in a while I had a really good feeling about this match. I felt that even in our short time together, that me and the players had endured a bumpy ride, for which I was sure we would come out the other side stronger and more resilient.

Wigan vs. Fulham, JJB Stadium

The JJB has never been renowned for its atmosphere, but even by Wigan’s standards the crowd was poultry, except for a die-hard contingent of Fulham fans who were determined to make their voices heard. Despite the disappointment of the first two displays, I opted to make only one change to the starting line up, with Hugo Rodallega getting his first start in place of Henrik Larsson.

A ripple of applause echoed throughout the stadium as the players took to the field, it was hardly a game to capture the publics imagination but everyone at Fulham knew that it was a vital match. However, we continued in our habit of starting games slowly and had barely got into the Wigan half before Julius Aghahowa had poked the ball home following a goalmouth scramble. There was an icy silence on the bench as I sat there, arms folded, hoping that the players would find some inspiration.

The contrast between me and Ricky couldn’t have been more stark, as I sat there with a face like thunder, he was barking instructions and frantically signalling to the players on the edge of the technical area. “Mauro” he shouted “Drop deeper and play off Rodallega”. The Argentine looked perplexed, he still had only a very basic understanding of English, so I wasn’t holding my breath that the message would hit home. But hit home it did, Sarioglu pumped a long hopeful ball up field which was met by the head of Rodallega. His flicked header fell perfectly into the path of Zarate, who showed great composure to round the ‘keeper and make the score 1-1. I remained seated, but deep down a huge wave of relief swept over me.

I felt like we were now in the ascendancy but still looked a little fragile in defence. Half time came and went without any major incident, but as the second half progressed, the game was in danger of petering out. Desperate for the win, I acted decisively, bringing on Streller and Larsson for Dempsey and Rodallega.

This was why they were paying me so much money, my ability to pull the proverbial rabbit out of the hat. No sooner had the substitutions been made, than Larsson was wheeling away having opened his account for the club with a spectacular bicycle kick from a Chris Burke cross. This time I was out of my seat, jumping up and down and embracing my backroom staff.

However, my euphoria was short lived. Straight from the kick off Wigan won a corner, which after another goalmouth scramble saw them claw their way back in the game via the outstretched boot of their Summer signing Sotiris Kyrgiakos.

I was experiencing the full range of emotions in this match and wasn’t sure if I could take anymore. Try as they may, my team couldn’t find a way through the Wigan defence for a third time. The hosts were clearly happy to take the draw and parked the bus in front of their goal for the final twenty minutes.

As the referee blew his whistle for full time, I stood up, still winless, but happier than I had been with our previous performances. As I shook hands with Chris Hutchings, he congratulated me and said “Well played mate, don’t worry, you’ll have enough to stay up this season”.

Full time: Wigan 2 - 2 Fulham

‘Have enough to stay up?’ I thought to myself, were we really that bad that far from being European contenders, people expected us to be in the relegation dog-fight? I’ve never been in one to date and I wasn’t about to start at this point in my career. As the players filed into the dressing room, no doubt expecting another ear bashing, I pulled Ricky to one side and asked him to do the post-match team talk.

“Ok”, he said. “Tell the lads that was a lot better today and at least we are seeing a few improvements. But, the problem is obvious, the defence is poor. Keep Sarioglu, Traore, Norambuena and Meira behind after the others have left and explain to them that for the next three months, there on probation. It’s time for them to shape up and prove they can hack it at this level or they will be looking for new clubs in January”. “Will do boss” he replied.

I waited for Ricky to enter the dressing room before punching the nearest vending machine in sight. The reason I couldn’t do the team talk was that I was livid. Livid that the team had let victory slip through their hands and livid at the ineptitude of these seasoned internationals, who had cost millions and were being paid small fortunes, yet couldn’t even get the basics right.

I made my way to the hospitality suite within the stadium to reflect on the days events and drown my sorrows.

[JonWo]

Chapter 5: Rule Britannia

Another morning and another hangover, I’d never been a big drinker, but this club were driving me to it. Still, I pulled myself together and dragged my addled body into the office and after a few cups of coffee felt ready to get on with the job at hand.

So the defence were the problem and no team had achieved anything without having strong foundations. I don’t know if the players we had at the club felt as if they were invincible and couldn’t be dropped, but I was determined to shake things up a bit.

You see, I had been a keen student of the game all my life; whenever there was a match on television, it didn’t matter if it was the Premier League or Rymand League, you could be guaranteed of one thing, I would be watching.

However, amongst all the riff-raff and no hopers, there was one player who had really stood out to me. I had taken many holidays in Greece and enjoyed the culture of it’s capital, Athens. Even in my spare time I couldn’t turn my nose up at the prospect of a major football event. So in June of this year, despite being unemployed, I headed off to watch AEK Athens take on Olympiakos at the Olympic Stadium. AEK dominated the match but that was merely a side show for me, I had been overawed by the performance of one player in particular, a player that the home fans affectionately referred to as Sokratis.

He was only nineteen years old but was a colossus at the back and marshalled the defence with an ease that belied his young age. I remember

thinking back then that he had the potential to be a world star. It was only one game and I know that even the worst players can have their day in the Sun, but I was in no position to hesitate, I had to take a chance, so I faxed through an offer of 1.3 million to the Greek side.

It didn’t take long to get a reply, later that afternoon I received a fax asking for a fifty percent sell on clause, “If you agree to this condition we will give you permission to speak to Sokratis Papastathopoulos”.

I agreed and the following day the young Greek defender signed a four year contract at Craven Cottage. I made a point of introducing him to the defenders first, interrupting Ricky who was working with the boys at the time. “This is your new team mates guys. His name is Sokratis and he is a central defender, I want you all to make him very welcome here”. There was confused looks, sideways glances and murmuring from the players, but after a few seconds hesitation, Fernando Meira stepped forward and shook the new boys hand.

So that was that, I had signed a potentially top class player on the cheap and delivered a long overdue wake up call to my underperforming defenders. I couldn’t have been happier with my days work, but now I had to reffocus my attention on our mid week fixture against Stoke in the Carling Cup.

Now I had never treated the Carling Cup with much respect, with Arsenal it had simply been an opportunity to give some of the youngsters a run out. But this was different, the competition had grown in significance in my opinion and this was a great chance for me to register my first win with Fulham.

This was no time to experiment, so I took my full strength squad down to the Britannia Stadium. I wanted them to build on the draw at Wigan with a convincing performance against the Championship high-flyers.

I had tremendous respect for the eight-hundred or so Fulham fans who had made the long trip up to Stoke for the game. This wasn’t a glamour tie, but a potential banana skin and I was more determined than ever that we wouldn’t slip up again.

Stoke City vs. Fulham, Britannia Stadium

Sokratis came in for Norambuena and as he ran out with the rest of the players, the announcement of his name was met with a respectful cheer from the travelling supporters.

It was the Stoke fans who were really creating an atmosphere for this game, they brought a real sense of occasion to the fixture and I wandered how my players would respond in their role as favourites.

I really didn’t need any further embarrassment and was happy to see my team take control of the game in the early going. However, I was troubled by the fact that despite our dominance, we were constantly being denied by Steve Simonsen in the Stoke goal. Rodallega, Zarate, Dempsey and Davies all tried and failed to break the deadlock. I was not prepared to sit by idly and watch my sides confidence capitulate further, so again I rang the changes at half time.

Streller and Larsson came on for Dempsey and Zarate, I had wanted a confident performance, but at the moment, we were looking anything but convincing.

Pulis’s men reverted to a 4-5-1 formation in the second half and rather than be encouraged by their defensive mentality, I was worried, worried that we wouldn’t be able to break them down.

The next thirty minutes felt like an age, we threw everything but the kitchen sink at the Potters, but still failed to make any leeway. That was until twenty minutes before the final whistle, it had to be the new boy Sokratis, he rose highest from a Chris Burke corner and directed the ball into the back of the net to give us a 1-0 lead.

I was delighted but didn’t let it show. However, I couldn’t hide my joy five minutes later when Henrik Larsson ensured my first victory of the season with a spectacular twenty yard volley. The stadium didn’t so much erupt, as awake into a begrudging round of applause. We hadn’t entertained or convinced any of the fans, but I wasn’t concerned, we had got the victory and that was all that mattered to me.

Full time: Stoke City 0 - 2 Fulham

“Congratulations” I exclaimed to the players after the game. “You did well today boys; a clean sheet and two goals, it’s a big step forward. Well done”.

Still shrouded by doubt and lacking any real belief in my team, I left the Britannia relieved that I had finally broken my winless duct. This was by no means an impressive victory, rather a run of the mill fixture which we were expected to win. However, at this moment in time I was happy to take what I could get, a victory was a victory and I was contented as I went to sleep that night, knowing that for a change, the papers would be full of more complimentary headlines in the morning.

[JonWo]

Chapter 6: Trouble Ahead

Back at the training ground the following day, the mood in the camp seemed more upbeat. We had got our first win of the season and I now hoped that the team would play with a bit more freedom and express themselves, as I knew they could.

As Ricky took the players through their paces, I picked up a newspaper and headed to the lavatory for my morning constitutional. Expecting to see the image of a celebrating Henrik Larsson on the back page, I was surprised to find Neil Mellor being mobbed by his team mates after helping his Preston side knock out Premier League Portsmouth, under the heading of ‘Giant Killers’.

Nevertheless, I began flicking through the pages, looking for the report from our fixture, when five pages in I came across a small segment in the bottom left hand corner, next to the horse racing results. It was entitled ‘Bumbling Fulham Scrape Win’ and the reporter went on to describe the match as ‘one of the most tedious and uninspiring football matches that I have ever had the misfortune of attending’. Ouch, that was a bit harsh.

I threw the newspaper in the bin and was on my way back to the office when I bumped into Mr. Al-Fayed. “Jonathan, could I have a world please?” he said ominously. “Of course”, we strolled out to the training ground and chatted as we watched the players practicing defending set pieces. “I haven’t exactly been overawed with our start to the season. In fact, I’d go as far as saying I am quite disappointed. You are being paid handsomely for your services and in return, I expect to see us competing with the best teams in the division”. “I know” I replied “And results will pick, I can assure you”.

Mr. Al-Fayed gave me a hard stare before continuing “I hope that they do. However, the main reason I wanted to speak to you was because there have been a few rumblings from people around the club that the players are not happy with your laid back approach to training”. “Which players? I’m on the training ground at nine o’clock sharp every morning. Tell me who it is and I will have a word with him”. “That would be the problem, I’m afraid to say that I don’t who is responsible, but I have heard that the News of the World are planning to run a major interview with the player in question on Sunday. This could be very embarrassing for everyone concerned with the club and I want you to make sure that the story never sees the light of day, do you understand?”. “Don’t worry Sir. I will speak to the boys and put an end to this nonsense”.

Oh dear, this was the last thing I needed as we prepared for the visit of Reading on Saturday. As the players sat and ate their lunch, I spoke to them about their roles and responsibilities at the club “This team is like a family, we play for each other and defend each other. We are only as strong as our weakest part and if there are some of you who are unhappy, then I would expect you to come to me with your problems and not to anyone outside of the club”. “We know boss, what’s all this about?” Simon Davies piped up. Hoping that my words had resonated with whoever was planning to talk to the News of the World, but also not wanting to cause any suspicion or divisions in the camp, I replied “I just wanted to make sure we are all on the same page, now finish your lunch and I’ll see you out there in half an hour”.

Now all I had to do was wait and hope that the story would never come out. In the next few days I switched my attention to our upcoming fixture against a Reading side who were marooned at the bottom of the table, having taken no points from their opening three games. This seemed like the ideal fixture for us, a great chance to kick-start our Premier League campaign against a team who were bound to be short on confidence.

Fulham vs. Reading, Craven Cottage

Before I knew it, Saturday was upon us and as the hordes of fans made their way through the turnstiles, I was delivering my final instructions to the players. I told them to get in Reading’s faces from the off and try and grab an early goal. I felt that if we took the early initiative, then Reading would crumble. After his showing in mid-week, Larsson regained his first team place at the expense of Rodallega in an otherwise unchanged starting line up.

As Mike Dean got the game underway, I noticed Mr. Al-Fayed had taken his seat in the directors box, this was the first game he had attended all season. Obviously he wanted to get a closer look at his new team, but it only served to increase my apprehension about the next ninety minutes. As I looked out onto the field and then to the players sat around me, I couldn’t help but wander who the potential mole was.

Still, during the first ten minutes of the game my problems were put into perspective as I saw Steve Coppell’s team labour to even put two passes together. They were awful, but we were making little headway ourselves. It wasn’t particularly pleasing on the eye but it was a keenly contested game, with both Liam Rosenior and Stephen Hunt having to leave the field on a stretcher after crunching tackles from Fernando Meira.

The Reading dugout were in a state of uproar and imploring the referee to send Meira off. However, Mr. Dean dismissed their claims, deeming Meira’s challenges to be hard, but fair.

It was nice to see my captain getting stuck in and leading by example, from that moment on we began to play some nice football and really took a strangle hold on the game. Craven Cottage erupted shortly after, as Sokratis nodded the ball home from Giovanni’s corner to give us the lead and score his second goal of the week.

By this stage, Coppell was beside himself with rage and began hurling abuse at the fourth official. There was a chorus of jeers from the home fans as he was sent to the stands, whilst I sympathised with Coppell a little, I struggled to hide the fact that I was delighted that things were going our way for a change.

However, with the chips down, Reading showed great battling spirit and were gifted a goal by our ever generous defence in the thirty-second minute. I was absolutely disgusted with Armand Traore, who’s loose back pass allowed Kalifa Cisse to curl the ball into the far right hand corner of Antti Niemi’s goal. An eerie hush came over the ground, apart from a small pocket of cheering Reading supporters.

This goal really took the wind out of our sails and I knew I had a lot of work to do at half time. “What happened lads? We had them on the ropes all half and then a silly mistake at the back has let them right back into the game. I don’t need to tell you that I will be livid if we don’t get the three points today”.

“That’s not good enough lads; I want you tight on your man at the back and I want the midfielders to feed the ball out wide and let Chris and Giovanni work their magic” Ricky added. I decided to make just the one change at the break, with Streller coming on in place of a tiring Clint Dempsey. However, I warned the players that I wouldn’t be afraid to make more changes if they continued to under-perform.

True to my word, having made little head-way during the first fifteen minutes of the second half, I hauled off Larsson and Traore and brought on Rodallega and Norambuena.

Reading were sitting back and trying to catch us on the counter attack. The seventy minute mark approached and as we continued to push forward, disaster struck. Hahnemann quickly threw the ball up to half way, after collecting a feeble effort from Davies. His inch perfect throw landed at the feet of Doyle, who jinked past the outstretched leg of Fernando Meira, bearing down on goal, he calmly chipped the ball over the head of the onrushing Niemi and was then mobbed by the ecstatic Reading supporters as he ran over to celebrate.

A chorus of boos rang down from the stands, as I sat in my chair with my head in my hands. I had used up all my substitutes and was running out of ideas. “Just tell them to go for it, take a risk, shove Zarate up top with Streller and Rodallega and lets just pray we can get something out of this game” I said to Ricky, who instantly relayed my instructions onto the pitch.

I later found out that as the second goal had gone in, Mr Al-Fayed had left the ground, furious at the way the team had capitulated. He wasn’t the only one, as I looked up, all around me I could see the supporters heading for the exits and one fan had even gone as far as to throw his season ticket onto the pitch.

I couldn’t really blame them but we still had time and as they say, football is a funny old game. Now playing to a half empty stadium, my team really began to turn the screw, we were practically camped in the Reading half. With six minutes remaining, my decision to push Zarate further forward was rewarded. He was quickest to the loose ball after Giovanni’s shot was blocked, his first time effort squirmed under the body of Hahnemann and trickled into the back of the net. He quickly collected the ball and ran back to the halfway line for the restart.

There was a real sense that we could snatch victory from the jaws of defeat in this one. Zarate came close again two minutes later but was denied by a finger tip save from Hahnemann. Everyone but Antti Niemi piled into the Reading area for the resulting corner, but Marco Streller’s delivery was poor and deflected of Andre Bikey and straight back into his path. With the penalty area still loaded, Streller fired a thunderous strike from the most acute of angles, unbelievably it clipped the far post and nestled in the back of the net.

“What a goal!” I shouted as I jumped out of my seat. Streller looked surprised that it had gone in, but had no time to think as he was mobbed by his team mates. We had done it. The referee blew the full time whistle as soon as Reading restarted the game and the players celebrated like they had just won the league, rather than a home fixture against the divisions bottom club.

Full time: Fulham 3 - 2 Reading

The players stayed out on the field to salute the fans who had stayed behind and witnessed a stirring comeback. I didn’t want to get too carried away, so headed for the dressing room. I couldn’t help but think about Mr. Al-Fayed leaving the ground early and what he would think when he heard about the comeback. The players had showed some real character today and I was proud of them. However, I was still pensive about what revelations may come out in the mornings papers.

[JonWo]

Chapter 7: The Traitor is Unmasked

The time was 3am and whilst safely tucked up in my bed, I was awoken by the sound of my phone ringing. ‘Ignore it’ I thought, but then five minutes later when the phone was still ringing, I forced myself out of bed and headed downstairs and picked up the phone “What the hell are you doing calling me at this time of night?!” I barked. “Jonathan, this is Mohammed Al-Fayed, we need to talk, meet me at the stadium now!”.

He sounded panicked, so I threw on my coat and headed out of the door. As I arrived at a rain soaked Craven Cottage, I was met by Mr. Al-Fayed in the parking lot. “What is it that can’t wait until later today?” I said. “Antti Niemi has done a four-page expose with the News of the World; describing you as an incompetent manager, money grabber and tactically naïve. He goes on to say that he feels he is wasting his career at Fulham and will be handing in a transfer request on Monday”. I stood there open mouthed as Mr. Al Fayed continued “It says, and I quote ‘I have been loyal to Fulham, but I feel I have reached the end of the line. Jonathan Wolstenholme seems more wrapped up in his own self importance than genuinely caring about how the team performs on the pitch’”.

“Well Jonathan, what do you have to say?” a clearly distressed Al-Fayed screamed. My blood was boiling and there was no way I was going to take this lying down “Utter nonsense, have you seen me on that touchline, on the training field, in my office. Every waking hour I have lived and breathed this club and for this over-rated prima-donna to question my commitment and my integrity… he’s gone Mohammed, he’ll never play for this club again whilst I’m in charge“.

As the rain continued to pour down and soak us, Al-Fayed composed himself and said “Jonathan, this is my club and this is my reputation on the line. Do what you will with this Judas, I don’t care. But let me be very clear about one thing, you haven’t impressed me and you haven’t vindicated my decision to employ you on such lavish wages. Since you took over the reigns it has brought me nothing but trouble… and now we have this. It’s an embarrassment. I want this mess sorted out quickly or you will find out that I am not a man to be messed with, your job‘s on the line here Wolstenholme!”

And with that, he stepped back into his car and drove off. I stood there shell-shocked; I thought it would have been one of the reserves or former first team players who were unhappy at being dropped. But Niemi, I had never exchanged a cross word with the guy. In fact, he was a player I had grown quite fond of. I got back into my car and drove off, but there was no way I could get back to sleep now.

I stood outside on my porch, staring into space as the rain continued to crash down around me. It wasn’t even 5am, but with a glass of whiskey in hand and brimming with anger, I began to plan ahead for what was sure to be an eventful day.

I marched into Craven Cottage at 9am and instructed the club secretary to call Niemi and demand he came to the ground. I sat in my office and stewed for awhile, contemplating what I was going to say. As the time ticked away and I grew more impatient, there was a knock at my door, “Come in” I said.

The club secretary walked in and told me that Niemi was refusing to meet with me, she said that he had no intention of coming in today or any other day for that matter - he had gone AWOL. “The coward!” I shouted “He’ll slag me off in the media, but doesn’t have the guts to confront me face to face. Call our lawyer, he’s not getting away that easily, he’s in breach of contract”. “Yes Mr Wolstenholme” the secretary replied as she hurriedly left my office.

With nothing left to do and the players not due in till Monday, I left and returned to my house. I stopped at my local newsagents on the way back to pick up a copy of the News of the World, I wanted to read every single word that weasel had wrote. He had dug his own grave and I was determined to make him lie in it.

[JonWo]

Chapter 8: The Day After The Night Before

As Sunday passed my bitterness had quelled and I felt ready to draw a line under the whole Niemi fiasco. ‘Leave the sensationalism and the rumour to the press’ I thought to myself, it was their job after all. Still, I contacted Niemi’s agent and let him know his client wasn’t welcome at the training ground.

It was only the beginning of September, but we would now be without a first choice goalkeeper until the transfer window re-opened. However, I knew I had no other option, I couldn’t have individuals undermining me and what I was trying to achieve at this club, so as the players traipsed into training on Monday morning, I ordered them all to meet in the cafeteria for a team meeting.

“I trust you have all heard the rumours and read the stories regarding Antti Niemi”. The room fell silent as I continued “He has shown his true colours and his lack of commitment to this club. He will not be returning. I hope you can all appreciate that his comments left me with no other option. I cannot have anyone showing such contempt and I hope you will give me your backing on this one”.

The players looked solemn but Fernando Meira stood up and told me I had the support of the squad. It was a huge weight off my mind and showed a previously unseen unity in the dressing room. They were behind me and willing to set aside their personal feelings and friendships for the good of the team.

I knew that I hadn’t heard the last of it, but it was time to concentrate on the job in hand. We had revelled in our last gasp victory over Reading at the weekend but that didn’t disguise the fact that it was another abject performance by the defence. It was time to get hands on, I instructed Ricky to spend the rest of the week working on trying to improve our back four, whilst I schooled the rest of the squad.

From here on, it was cross country running, set pieces and shooting practice. The attack had been chipping in with a fair few goals, but with such a rickety defence, it may be a matter of ‘if you score four, we’ll score five’ for the rest of the season.

Another long trip up North awaited us on Saturday, we travelled to the North-East to take on high-flying Sunderland at the Stadium of Light. The Black Cats had enjoyed a brilliant start to the season and despite a recent 2-0 home defeat to Everton, currently sat second in the league.

Sunderland vs. Fulham, Stadium of Light

As the players limbered up in the dressing room prior to the game, I was ready and prepared to deliver my rallying cry. “Today is the day to show everyone what we are made, we have faced great adversary in our short time together, but we will not wilt, we will grow stronger for the experience. Show me your willing to die for the cause today and lets go out and get a result to put the smile back on the face of our long suffering fans. Are you with me?”. The players roared their approval and took to the field like snarling beasts. ‘Don’t let me down now boys’ I thought to myself before making my way to the dugout.

You can always rely on the Mackems to create a jovial atmosphere and as the players took to the field, a chant of ‘There’s only one Antti Niemi’ rang around the stadium. I had opted to bring in Trinidad and Tobago international Tony Warner to take his place, he had a decent amount of experience at this level so I was confident that he would prove a more than able replacement. The only other change saw last weeks goal-scoring hero Marco Streller come in to replace Dempsey, who was dropped to the bench.

The Sunderland fans were chanting an in exuberant mood as the game got underway. The players made a great start and dominated the early exchanges; our ball retention was superb and we had Sunderland chasing shadows. This effectively silenced the home crowd and with just ten minutes on the clock, Zarate played a neat one-two with Larsson before rifling the ball underneath Craig Gordon to give us the lead. ‘Brilliant stuff’ I thought, but kept my emotions in check and simply clapped as Zarate was embraced by his team mates.

Right, we had got an early lead, this was uncharted territory for us. I stood up and signalled to Traore and Sarioglu to keep it compact at the back and ease up on their attacking instincts. I knew we would have to weather a Sunderland backlash, but I didn’t expect their response to be so swift.

Straight from the kick-off, Michael Chopra hit a raking ball out wide to Kieran Richardson. Richardson sprinted past Sarioglu and all the way to the by-line, before delivering an inch perfect cross on to the head of the unmarked Mario Defendi, who powered the ball home. It was another piece of calamitous defending which was fast becoming the hallmark of my new-look Fulham side.

Our lead had lasted less than sixty seconds and it was now Sunderland who had their tails up. As the half progressed, the play went from end to end, with neither side managing to stamp their authority on the game. That was until just after the half hour, Sarioglu took a throw in thirty yards out from the Sunderland goal. He threw the ball down the line to Burke, who’s looping first time cross was caught sweetly on the volley by Larsson. There was nothing Craig Gordon could do to stop the ball sneaking inside his near post and allowing us to reclaim the lead, 2-1.

“For God’s sake now keep it tight!” I screamed, wary of our defences penchant for switching off straight after we had scored a goal.

And what would you know, all of three minutes later, Mario Defendi was again wheeling away having drawn the game level. However, I couldn’t blame the defence for this one. It had been a piece of individual brilliance from the Italian, a swerving thirty yard effort that had deceived Tony Warner.

With four goals in the opening thirty-five minutes it was proving to be a brilliant spectacle, but it was doing no good for my heart. With half time looming and the game going through a bit of a lull, Sokratis hit a long hopeful ball up field. As Nosworthy went to make the clearance, he misjudged the flight of the ball, which went straight over his head and into the path of a grateful Henrik Larsson. Clean through on goal, he made no mistake, waiting for the goalkeeper to commit himself before calmly slotting the ball past him and giving us an unlikely half time lead.

It had been a whirlwind opening forty-five minutes, but I couldn’t wait to get the boys in the dressing room and make sure we didn’t let the lead slip for a third time. “Right then, quite a half lads; attack-wise we have been brilliant, I can’t ask for much more from you, keep it up. As for the defence, you look so fragile it’s unbelievable. It’s time for you to step up and stop relying on the forwards to dig you out of a hole. Play as a unit and for gods sake, stay focused! They’re there for the taking boys, go and finish them off”.

There were no changes at half time, but within just two minutes of the restart we had grabbed our forth. And who else? Super Henrik, showing a real poachers instinct, he was quickest to a fumble from Gordan and toe-poked the ball home from ten yards to grab his hat-trick. There was jubilation in the stands and on the bench as the Swedish veteran celebrated, it was the ideal start to the half and now we finally had some breathing space.

I was delighted as the next fifteen minutes past without any major scares, Meira was marshalling the defence excellently and Sunderland were struggling to break us down. The home crowd were getting restless and this seemed to translate to the players on the pitch.

With ten minutes to go, I brought off Larsson for Rodallega. He received a standing ovation from the travelling Fulham contingent and even some of the Mackems gave a begrudging round of applause in appreciation of a top class display from the forward. With the ninety minutes elapsed, Streller popped up with another goal, as he headed in Chris Burke’s corner to make it 5-2!

Full time: Sunderland 2 - 5 Fulham

I was in dreamland not long after when the final whistle went. I had challenged my players to produce a performance today and they had delivered in spectacular fashion. I waited by the tunnel to shake each and everyone of their hands as they left the field.

They had finally shown they had the stomach for the fight. After all the controversy of the last few days and weeks, we now look like coming out of the other side and on evidence of today, could well be set for some exciting times ahead.

[JonWo]

Chapter 9: Derby Day Delight

It was Sunday morning and despite it being one of my first days off for as long as I could remember, so delighted was I with the teams performance yesterday, that I had agreed to do a live television interview with Sky Sports New for their ‘Morning Report’ segment.

I had instructed the club secretary to brief the news channel about certain hot topics that I wasn’t prepared to discuss; namely anything to do with Antti Niemi. I wanted it to be purely about the football and the teams performances on the pitch.

I headed into make-up as soon as I arrived at the studios and shortly after made my way in front of the camera. I spoke to Jim White and Ed Chamberlain briefly during the commercial break and then as the familiar sound of Moloko’s ‘The Time is Now’ began playing, I readied myself for my first live interview in months.

Jim White: “Welcome back, your watching Sky Sports News; coming up in the next half hour we have all of yesterday’s goals from the Championship and League’s One and Two. As well as a look ahead to all the weeks live football action. With me in the studio at this time, we have Fulham manager Jonathan Wolstenholme. Morning Jonathan, it’s nice to have you on the show.”

Jonathan Wolstenholme: “Glad to be hear Jim.”

Jim White: “Ok lets dive straight in, you hadn’t enjoyed the best start to the season, but things seem to have been picking up in recent weeks, culminating with an impressive 5-2 victory at the Stadium of Light yesterday.”

Jonathan Wolstenholme: “Some of the new boys, especially the foreign lads, were always going to take a bit of time to bed in and get used to the pace of Premiership football, but I’m convinced that with time, we’ll begin to see what they are truly capable of.”

Jim White: “I’m sure they will have taken a lot of confidence from yesterday’s performance, what do you think is the main difference between yesterdays showing and some of the displays you produced earlier in the season?”

Jonathan Wolstenholme: “Me and my backroom staff have been working doubly hard in training, trying to improve on a few weaknesses we had seen in the team during the first few weeks of the season. It’s no secret that I wasn’t happy with the level of performance shown in the games against Middlesbrough and Manchester United, but as time progresses, I believe we are addressing and fixing these problems.”

Jim White: “You were one of few managers willing to take a punt on an ageing Henrik Larsson; with five goals in his opening six games, including a spectacular hat-trick yesterday, how happy are you with his contribution and how much longer do you think he can perform at this level?”

Jonathan Wolstenholme: “I’m delighted with the way Henrik has performed since joining the club. He is a model professional on and off the pitch and a great example for some of the younger players. If he can keep himself fit and strong, then I don’t see any reason why he can’t continue for another two or three years, at least.”

Jim White: “It has been a very busy Summer for you at Fulham, with lots of comings and goings. But one that may have slipped under the radar for most of our viewers was the departure of assistant manager Les Reed and the subsequent appointment of Ricky Sbragia, can you tell us what happened there?”

Damn, I was sure I had instructed the secretary to tell them to steer clear of any of our off field problems. But here I was in the glare of the cameras on live television, I couldn’t tell them that I had effectively fired Les in a fit of temper for daring to question me, so I would have to give my best spin doctor reply.

Jonathan Wolstenholme: “It was a mutual decision. Les had worked under Lawrie Sanchez prior to me taking over and like most new managers, I wanted to have my own people around me. Saying that, he was a top coach and I wish him the very best with his new role at QPR”.

Jim White: “Ok and finally, we couldn’t let you go without asking about the recent interview conducted with Antti Niemi. He wasn’t in the squad for yesterday’s trip to Sunderland, can you shed any further light on the situation, is this the last we have seen of him in a Fulham shirt?”

I couldn’t believe it, the double crosser. I had made my feelings abundantly clear on this one. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair and glared at White before answering.

Jonathan Wolstenholme: “The situation is being dealt with internally by the club and I can’t offer anymore comments on this at the moment.”

As the camera panned back to the anchorman, I removed my microphone and threw it on the floor before storming out of the studios. I contacted the club secretary “What the hell was that, didn’t you speak to them before hand?”. The secretary replied that it just typical underhand journalists trying to get a story and I shouldn’t let it bother me because I had handled all their questions calmly and confidently. Phew, at least it was over. One things for sure, I won’t be doing another interview with those guys anytime soon.

During the next week everything seemed to go well, the players trained hard when they needed to and I even organised a team building exercise, taking them paint-balling. This was all in preparation for our huge match on Saturday, at home to Avram Grant’s star studded Chelsea side. This would be a real test of how far we had come.

Fulham vs. Chelsea, Craven Cottage

It was my first London derby of the season and I was determined to try and make it a memorable one for the fans. However, that was going to be easier said than done. The Blues had enjoyed a strong start to the season and were currently third in the league.

I knew the fans would be up for this one, so my players would need to match their passion on the pitch. One thing was for sure, Chelsea posed a much bigger attacking threat than most of the teams we come up against so far and with my rickety backline, they had the potential to rip us apart. I opted to play an attacking 4-1-3-2 formation; with Simon Davies giving the defence some extra protection by playing an anchoring role in midfield.

So here we were, it was a sell out crowd and Craven Cottage was rocking with anticipation. I shouted a few last minute instructions to the players as the match got underway, reminding them to play a high-pressure game and not allow Chelsea any time on the ball.

After a cautious opening five minutes, with both teams feeling each other out - the game sprang into life, from one of the most unlikely sources. Chelsea were enjoying some possession on the halfway line, but Streller and Burke’s consistent hassling of Michael Essien forced the Ghanaian to play the ball back. However, his pass was loose and fell straight into the path of Giovanni, who skinned Tal Ben Haim before smashing the ball past Petr Cech to give us a 1-0 lead.

Brilliant! It was a better start than I could have hoped for. However, shortly after the ball was in the back of the net again. Not unsurprising considering our track record, but the astonishing thing was that it was Henrik Larsson celebrating as the fans behind the goal went wild. The Swede had pounced on a mistake from Cech and we were now two goals to the good after just eight minutes.

I implored the players to remain calm as I stood on the edge of my technical area. The thing was that we were really taking the game to Chelsea now and the players were scenting blood. The Blues were capitulating before my eyes and just three minutes later, some great interplay between Giovanni, Streller and Larsson, saw the Swedish forward dink the ball over Cech and he was off celebrating before the ball had even hit the back of the net, 3-0.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, it was like everything we had worked toward was clicking all at once. As I looked around my dugout, all I could see were the beaming expressions of my backroom staff and substitutes.

Ten minutes went by and as the game seemed to be calming down, Malouda broke away down the left side for Chelsea, he skipped past Sarioglu but as he was about to deliver his cross into the box, the Turk made an inch perfect tackle and fired the ball up to Larsson. Larsson showed sublime skill to bring the ball down in one swift motion, before unleashing Mauro Zarate down the middle. One on one with Cech, Zarate made no mistake and it was 4-0. I’ll repeat that, 4-0!

What could I say to the lads at half time? I couldn’t pick fault with that performance, it was one of the best attacking displays I had ever seen from one of my sides, so I just gave them one simple message - keep it up and go enjoy yourselves boys.

Despite my own joy, it was shocking to see a Chelsea team come out for the second half so listless. There heads had dropped and you sensed they didn’t believe they could turn it around. This would never have happened under my old foe Jose Mourinho, but I was determined to savour the experience all the same.

I was pleased with the teams display in the second half; despite not adding to their advantage, they played with great composure and for once, got the basics right. Each pass was met by an ‘ole’ from the home supporters and at the final whistle, the crowd rose to acclaim one of the greatest Fulham performances in recent times.

Fulham 4 - 0 Chelsea

I embraced Ricky at the final whistle, who then ran onto the pitch to celebrate with the players whilst I shook hands and commiserated with Avram Grant.

After ten minutes or so, the players returned to the dressing room in boisterous mood, some wearing the Chelsea shirts that they had swapped with the likes of Frank Lampard and John Terry. “Absolutely magnificent boys, you all deserve a massive pat on the back today. They are a world class team and you destroyed them, this is what we can achieve if we really put our minds to it. You’ve all done me proud today, now I want you all to go out an enjoy yourselves”.

As the players headed out clubbing for the evening, I returned to my house thrilled with what I had seen and with a real sense of belief that if we continued to play as we had over the last two games, then there was no limit to what we could achieve this season.

[Elrithral]

Jon, I read this story elsewhere and it really is an excellent tale, i'm sure you'll get plenty of readers. However, slow your posting down, you're unlikely to capture the audience you deserve with so much going on in such a short space of time, give them a chance to catch up with what you've posted and then perhaps add a chapter every couple of days

Good luck.

[mark wilson27]

Good story and great result against the dirty blues of Chelsea, but have to agree with EL, slow your posting down mate. Each post is pretty large and people get bored of reading if there is several large posts a day

[JonWo]

Thanks guys, I'll stick to a chapter a day

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Chapter 10: From The Midlands With Love

Happy days. I arrived at the office shortly after 9am on Monday morning and greeted the club secretary, who I have now found out is called Heather, before heading in to catch up on some paper work. I’d given the players a little extra recovery time after their late night excursions on Saturday and they arrived somewhat bleary-eyed at 11am for a light training session and a bit of five-a-side.

Leeds were up next in the League Cup second round and I have to admit that with my full focus being on the league at this moment in time, I wasn’t overly fussed by the outcome. Still, the players needed more time out in the middle together, so I would be sending out a full strength team, confident that we would have enough to overcome the League One side.

Fulham vs. Leeds, Craven Cottage

The fixture might not have captured the imagination of our fans, but the Leeds supporters were out in force, no fewer than five thousand of them had made the long journey South to Craven Cottage and I was sure that this would motivate the boys from Elland Road. I urged my troops to show the Whites due respect, but if they played their own game, I knew we would have too much for Leeds and would eventually come out victorious.

It was a cold Tuesday night at Craven Cottage and the Fulham supporters hadn’t exactly turned out in force. Still, the fifteen-thousand die-hards who had filled the stadium were creating a decent atmosphere as the game kicked off.

I could go into great detail about how we systematically dismantled a robust and well drilled Leeds defence, but the fact of the matter was that we were head and shoulders above this once great team. They posed us few problems but we ran out comfortable 5-1 winners. Sure, we had a bit of a hiccup in the first half and let a one goal lead slip.

But in the second half, Sokratis completed what was a remarkable hat trick, add to this goals from Simon Davies and loan star Giovanni and we were home and dry.

Fulham 5 - 1 Leeds

On this occasion no champagne corks were popped, there was no hysteria, just a reassurance that we had emphatically defeated a team were expected to beat - it was a run of the mill victory.

Still, we had made it to the third round of the League Cup and it had been another impressive performance from the boys. I was weary of the players burning themselves out at this early stage of the season, so it was another light training session in the morning.

I received an apology from the people at BSKYB on the Friday, they said that my contribution had been very much appreciated on Sunday’s ‘Morning Report’ and that Jim White had been heavily fined for breaching the rules that I had set forward.

I didn’t give it a great deal of thought and focused my attention on our away trip to mid-table Aston Villa on the upcoming Saturday. Currently sat fifth in the table, this was a fixture that we were expected to win. However, Martin O’Neill had always been a manager I had respected, he was a very passionate man, but I couldn’t underestimate his tactical acumen.

Aston Villa vs. Fulham, Villa Park

Villa Park is one of the biggest grounds outside of the top four in England, but the Fulham fans still arrived in their droves, nearly selling out the away section. However, I couldn’t deny that they were being out-sang by the home support as the game began.

I was sat perched on my chair as O’Neill gestured wildly to his players. The juxtaposition of mentality couldn’t have been more stark, but it was his passion that seemed to transfer to his players on the pitch. After just three minutes, Stylian Petrov whipped in a dangerous corner which tantalised my defence, the outstretched necks of my defenders couldn’t reach the ball and Marlon Harewood rose highest to nod the Villains into a one goal lead.

Still, no need to panic, yet. Villa continued to dominate the play for the next twenty minutes. However, in the thirtieth minute, Sarioglu fired a hopeful ball into the box, with seemingly no pressure on him Zat Knight inexplicably handled the ball in the box. Alan Wiley was left with no other option but to point to the spot and our luck was confounded when Giovanni’s spot kick narrowly escaped the grasp of Thomas Sorensen in the Villa goal.

It wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t deserved, but we were level and I hoped we would kick on from here. The problem was that Villa seemed more up for this game than we did and buoyed on by their home support, they continued to push us backwards. Luckily, we escaped their late rally and scraped through to half time with the 1-1 draw still intact.

“Lads, you are hanging on by the skin on your teeth” I yelled. “This isn’t good enough, you can play a darn sight better than this. I’m going to give you the first ten minutes and then I will make changes. We need to rediscover that passion we had against Sunderland and the fighting spirit we had against Reading. Come on boys, I know you’ve got it in you, make me proud.”

No changes were made at the break, but I remained apprehensive. I needn’t have worried. Within five minutes of the restart, Garry Cahill’s petulant response after conceding a free kick saw Giovanni standing over the ball. The Mexican caught the Villa defence out, sending in a quick cross which found Streller unmarked in the box. The forward made no mistake with his header and calmly directed it into the bottom right hand corner of the net, giving us a 2-1 lead.

I had told Rodallega and Dempsey to warm up, but called them in shortly after, to see how the game progressed. Fifteen uneventful minutes went by before good old Sokratis popped up again. Chris Burke swung in the corner and the Greek met the ball with his head and powered the ball home to grab his fifth goal in as many games and put the result out of doubt.

I rose to acclaim what was a perfectly executed set piece, one that we had practiced in training and had now been pulled off with near military precision. Although Gary Cahill grabbed a late consolation goal for the home side, the match ended 3-2 and there was rapturous applause from the small pocket of travelling supporters as we left the field.

Aston Villa 2 - 3 Fulham

What can I say? Another great result, but the defence still looks decidedly average. But lets focus on the positives. We had cemented our hold on fifth place in the division and things seem to be looking up. I wasn’t about to deliver the same old team talk to the players; they knew what they had done well and what they needed to improve on.

For now, I was going to revel in our sixth straight victory. There would be no morning appearance on Sky Sports News, no comments for Match of the Day, but just a quiet satisfaction that we had kept the bandwagon rolling.

[Greasy Chip Butty]

Enjoying the start of this, a good read. Things seem to be clicking into place now.

[JonWo]

Chapter 11: Rob Styles - Public Enemy Number One

It’s Monday morning and I’m at my desk taking calls from journalist and well wishers, nothing of any real substance, just typical managerial duties. I made sure to call the people at BSKYB and inform them that they had burnt their bridges as far as I was concerned. From now on, an interview with me would be like a solar eclipse; it wasn’t going to happen very often.

My off-field shenanigans aside, things were looking up. We were scoring goals and entertaining the fans, but as ever, the one nagging thought in the back of my mind was our inability to defend properly.

My Arsenal connections had always served me well in the past, so I drafted in former Gunners legend Tony Adams to try and address our problems. Tony arrived at the clubs training ground on Monday morning and was eager to get working with the players. He wasn’t a softly, softly guy and as I watched him drill and berate the players, I hoped they would come out stronger and more resolute for the experience.

He was particularly hard on young Armand Traore who’s indiscipline whilst practising the offside trap had lead to a dressing down from Tony which nearly had the Frenchman in tears.

After working with the boys for three days, Tony returned to his role as assistant manager at Portsmouth, after declining a full time coaching role at Craven Cottage. “You’ve got a good bunch of lads here” he said before departing, but said he wasn’t ready to leave his role at Fratton Park where he was being mentored by the hugely experienced Harry Redknapp.

I was somewhat disappointed at missing out on a coach of Tony‘s calibre, but bigger challenges lay ahead, starting with the visit of a destitute Newcastle side on Saturday.

Fulham vs. Newcastle, Craven Cottage

The Magpies had endured a torrid start to the season and were currently occupying the third relegation place; having gained only three points all season and were without a win. Still, you could never underestimate the resilience of the Geordie’s and despite this looking like a guilt edged opportunity for us to register another three points, I wasn’t taking anything for granted.

The heckles and jeers abounded from the travelling supporters as Sam Allardyce took his seat in the dugout. He wasn’t a popular man up in Newcastle and it was clear to see that the strain was beginning to take it’s toll on him.

There was no room for sentiment in this game though; much as I had admired the work Big Sam had done at Bolton, I instructed my team to exploit the lack of self belief in the Magpies’ dressing room and go for the jugular. Much to my delight, they did this with great aplomb and were in front as early as the seventh minute, when Mauro Zarate found himself some space in the box and hit a powerful shot across Shay Given to give us a 1-0 lead. Despite the best efforts of our cheering supporters, it was the sound of booing from the disgruntled Geordie’s that echoed around the stadium.

With seemingly everything going against them, the Magpies battled their way back into the game and began to enjoy the better of the play, without really threatening Tony Warner’s goal. That was until Simon Davies played a suicidal and frankly unnecessary looping ball back into Warner’s penalty area from the half way line. What was he doing! Chris Burke raced back to try and snuff out the danger, but was bundled over by Obafemi Martins in the area and as the crowd sighed with relief that the pressure pressure had subsided, referee Rob Styles inexplicably pointed to the spot.

The referee instantly showed a red card to Burke, I was in a state of disbelief as the Scotsman trudged off the pitch. I raced out of my seat to remonstrate with the fourth official “What the f**k was that for, shambles. Styles, you’re a joke!”. As the players remonstrated with the referee, Norambuena got booked in the ensuing melee. However, there was no changing the officials mind and there was a chorus of boos as Michael Owen calmly dispatched the penalty.

With five minutes to go until the break and with us clearly on the rack, I ordered the players to defend for their lives. It had become a real grudge match and I was more than determined than ever that we would come out on the winning side.

As the players came into the dressing room, still disputing the decision that had cost us the lead, I ordered them to be quiet. “Lads, I know you feel like you have been hard done by, but that’s history now, you need to forget about it”. Despite normally leaving the half time rabble rousing to me, Ricky stood up and threw in his two pennies worth “The boss is right, forget it, put it out of your system. Newcastle are going to go into that dressing room believing that this game is theirs for the taking. Ten men or not, we are better than this lot, go out and do that shirt that you wear and more importantly those people that your represent proud. It is in moments like these where the great stand up to be counted… prove to me that you are one of those people”.

I couldn’t have put it better myself if I had tried, I lead the claps as the players got hyped up for the second half and gave Ricky a knowing pat on the back.

“Streller and Larsson are looking a bit tied” he said. “Give them ten minutes and we’ll look at it then” I replied. After ten minutes of the first half, Ricky had been proved right and Streller and Larsson were replaced with Kamara and Rodallega.

If I had been the manager of Newcastle United I would be ashamed of myself. I won’t say that to Big Sam, but their lack of ambition in the second half was an absolute embarrassment.

Despite having only ten men on the field, we were looking like the only team possible of forcing a result in this one. But with the ninety minutes now expired, I had resigned myself to the draw. However, it’s never over till it’s over in this game and with what proved to be the last kick of the match; Giovanni delivered an in swinging corner from the left and there he was, with perfect timing, the incomparable Sokratis Papastathopoulos to power home the winner and send the Craven Cottage crowd into ecstasy.

Fulham 2 - 1 Newcastle

Our ten men had snatched victory at the death and I couldn’t have been more proud of them. We had overcome the injustice of Burke’s sending off and a very resolute, yet unimaginative rearguard from the Geordies.

Newcastle were a team who were very much in trouble, but we had dug deep and taken maximum points from the fixture. The results saw us climb to the heady heights of third in the division, just two points behind early pace setters West Ham. I can have no complaints with the boys today, we had conceded a goal that should never have stood, but had shown great character to claim a victory that our play so richly deserved.

[JonWo]

Chapter 12: Armchair Fan

As I patrolled the training ground on Monday morning and thought back to the weekends events, I couldn’t have been happier with the resilience my team had shown. We had decided to appeal against Chris Burke’s sending off and I was confident that the appeal’s committee would see sense and overturn his suspension.

However, I wasn’t likely to get off so easily. You see, the contemptuous Rob Styles had included my outburst to the fourth official in his match report and the FA were keen to highlight their Respect campaign by making an example of a high profile manager. And as I fitted the bill perfectly, I was expecting to receive a hefty fine or maybe even a touchline ban.

My hearing was set for Thursday and dressed in my Sunday best and eager to avoid bringing anymore shame on the club, I headed off to the FA headquarters, hoping against hope that the Football Association would show me some leniency. Despite my impassioned plea that my comments were made in the heat of the moment after a ludicrous decision from the official, I was slapped with a three match touchline ban.

I was dumfounded and felt I was being unfairly persecuted, but with no appeal process for these type of proceedings, I would have to take my punishment like a man.

So it was now up to Ricky to rally the troops in my absence, I was in day-to-day contact with him in the build up to our away fixture against sixteenth placed Bolton. However, I felt helpless, no matter how much input I had on the training ground; I was barred from the dressing room on match-days, so would need my right hand man to do my bidding.

I invited Ricky down to my local Red Lion pub on the Friday night for a glass of wine and to explain how I wanted the team to approach the following days fixture. I told him that Bolton were a tough tackling, yet defensive minded team who would try and knock us out of our stride early on. “So what do you have in mind boss” Ricky said. “I want you to pull Davies out of the team and get Meira in the anchorman role in midfield. I think Stefanovic is well worthy of a recall to the starting line, so I want him to take Meira’s place in the centre of defence. We will need some experienced heads out there, so I think this game is made for Dejan”.

Me and Ricky talked the evening away from that point on; discussing every possible scenario that might occur during Saturday’s match. But as I left the pub shortly after midnight, I knew that for the first time in my career, the direction of my club was out of my hands.

Bolton vs. Fulham, Reebok Stadium

Sat at home watching Sky Sports News, I felt a world away from where I should have been as I watched Jeff Stelling and the boys debating the outcome of the days matches. I should have been delivering my final words of inspiration to the team, but there I was, slumped in my chair, sipping on a can of Carling like a deadbeat.

I lived the highs and lows of every typical arm-chair fan during that afternoon; smoking like a chimney and slowly becoming more and more inebriated. I listened intently whenever the show cut to reports from Matt Le Tissier, as he described the events that were unfolding at the Reebok. I was up on my sofa jumping for joy as I heard that two goals in the space of a minute from Giovani had given us a 2-0 lead. But quickly crashed back to reality when news of Mikel Alonso’s free kick confirmed that Bolton had pulled one back.

However, as the game progressed and the reports from the Reebok became more and more frequent, I couldn’t help but feel I was missing out. Not that I was too despondent, our Mexican loan star Giovani was having quite the game by the sound of things and Le Tissier was crowing about his contribution. He grabbed a third on thirty five minutes and then a fourth on the stroke of half time. 4-1! What a score-line; in-spite of my ban the team were destroying Sammy Lee’s side on their own stomping ground.

I headed back to the kitchen for another beer and no sooner had I returned to my seat on the sofa, than Giovani had scored his fifth! Where had all this come from, I wandered to myself. It sounded like a terrific game and I was actually beginning to enjoy myself as I sat holed up in my house.

There were no more goals in the game, but I raised a can to the players as news of the final whistle came in and confirmed our magnificent 5-1 victory.

Bolton 1 - 5 Fulham

I didn’t sleep that night, I just stayed up and watched the highlights of our game over and over again on Sky Plus. As the beers began to take their toll, I began to feel bitter. The team had played brilliantly in my absence - did they really need me or was Ricky really the man for the job?

I shook off the cobwebs and returned to work on Monday morning; not exactly fresh, but with a greater clarity of mind. I decided to take a more hands on approach to training and joined in with the team as they played a 5-a-side match.

I was made to look a real mug by some of the players, as they constantly skinned me and highlighted my lack of fitness. I barely got a touch all game and couldn’t have felt more useless as the training session came to an end.

I told Ricky to keep the same starting line up for the visit of Sven Goran Eriksson’s Manchester City on Saturday and added that I would be away on business until Saturday morning, so asked him not to contact me.

In reality, what ‘business’ meant was that I would be sat at my house all week, slowly becoming more and more bitter at the way I was losing control at the club I had been charged with managing.

How had it come to this? ‘I am a world class manager’ I kept repeating to myself, but I couldn’t help thinking about how well the team were doing without me. I made the sofa my base camp for the rest of the week and spent countless hours in front of the television watching rubbish films and wallowing in my own self pity.

And so came match day. I managed to drag myself out of bed and was down at the Red Lion, banging on the door at 10am. I had convinced myself that I would have to get there early to get a good seat for the Fulham vs. Manchester City match that was being shown live that afternoon. However, the reality was that I was desperate to get my first beer of the day down my neck - this I have to admit, was becoming a bit of a problem.

Still, as eleven o’clock rolled around and I fell threw the door, I ordered myself a Carling and then perched myself in front of the widescreen television, as the landlord looked on in disbelief.

“Is, is that Jonathan Wolstenholme” I heard the landlord say to his young barmaid. “Who?” she replied, “It is, it’s Jonathan Wolstenholme. I’m gonna buy him a pint”. The landlord came over and delivered both my pints to the table and we talked football and Fulham for awhile as the build up to the game got underway.

It turns out that ‘Steve’ was a die hard Cottagers fan, but was unable to go to the home matches as he had to look after his pub. However, with the game approaching it’s kick off, he stuck by side and continued to ply me with his ideas; such as how Sarioglu didn’t deserve to where the shirt. He said the Turkish international lacked commitment to the cause and should be replaced by fan-favourite Moritz Volz.

Fulham vs. Manchester City, Craven Cottage

I ignored his jabbering as the game got underway. By this stage the pub was packed to the rafters, as white shirt wearing fans merrily chatted amongst one another. It seemed like Steve was the only guy who had recognised me and I was delighted with the freedom that anonymity allowed me as I watched my side take the early upper hand.

Despite dominating the game for large parts of the first half, a Robert Pires inspired City side managed to hold out until the break. I watched as the camera’s focused on Ricky; his arms folded, his body language mirrored how I felt. We should have been in the lead, yet looked a bit lacklustre in attack.

“Nice move son” I mouthed as Ricky brought on Rodallega for Larsson at the break. Exactly the change I would have made, but I was eager to see how the Colombian would perform after an indifferent start to the season. “Come on boys!” I though, as I asked Steve to fetch me another beer from the bar.

As the second half got underway, I was on my sixth pint and beginning to feel a little worse for ware. I continued guzzling but then sprang to life as I witnessed Sokratis power home a header from Streller’s corner. The pub erupted with noise, pints were spilled, but no one seemed to care as the camera focused on the lanky Greek star wheeling away in celebration.

“Oi, that’s Wolstenholme. Wolstenholme’s in the Red” I heard a skinhead bellow from the back of the pub. By this stage I was barely able to hold my pint, as the fans bounded towards me. Everyone wanted to shake my hand and I sat there wearily “You’re a genius mate, the single best thing to happen to this club in a long time. Let me buy you a pint”. Bleary eyed, I smiled as another pint was thrust in front of me.

The fan, who had introduced himself as John, sat next to me with his arm draped over my shoulder for the rest of the game. I began to feel a little down, but with a squinted eye, focused back on the game. We didn’t have to wait long for my team to deliver the hammer blow. The pub roared as Sokratis again nodded in from a Giovani corner. “You signed him, didn’t you mate? You are a legend” John slurred.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, trying to rid myself of the overly tactile John who continued to place his arm around my shoulder. At this point, I dare say that no one in the pub had a clue what was going on in the game. Everyone was half-cut and there was a mumbled celebration as Rodallega completed the victory in the dying minutes of the game.

Fulham 3 - 0 Manchester City

I headed for the exit as soon as the final whistle had blown. This wasn’t the way I wanted to enjoy my football matches in the future, under the arm of a sweaty lout. But as I attempted to shower off the day excesses later that night, I was filled with a renewed hope; if the team could perform this well without me, then there was no end to what we could achieve with me in the dugout.

[JonWo]

Chapter 13: Corporate Hospitality

It had been a week to forget for me personally, but on the pitch, the team had done the business in-spite of my absence. I woke up on the Monday feeling lethargic and unwell, but as I turned to look at my alarm clock, I was given the shock of my life. ‘9:20’ it read - I was late for training!

I threw my clothes on and bolted out of the door. I had hoped the new week would signal a fresh beginning for me; I planned to arrive early for training, take the players threw a few drills and remind them that I was still the main man at the club. However, that plan had gone out of the window and as I sped across London in my Bentley, I was frantically trying to come up with a reason to justify my lateness.

The team cheered sarcastically as I bounded onto the training ground just after ten o’clock. “What time do you call this boss?” Simon Davies asked jovially. I had always been a stickler for timekeeping and would come down hard on any player who turned up late, but wishing to keep my reputation intact I said “You know why Davies, don’t get cheeky. I had a dentists appointment; I phoned the club secretary to tell her I would be an hour late and asked her to pass the message on to Ricky, didn‘t she tell you mate?”. Ricky looked at me confused “No boss. I saw her this morning but she didn’t say a word”.

I hesitated for a moment, worrying that the players had sussed out I was lying. Then, without thinking I barked “That useless woman! How hard is it to pass on a simple message? All she has to do is answer phones and deliver memo’s all day and she can’t even do that properly. You carry on training boys, I’ll be back in a minute, I’m going to go and give that woman a piece of my mind, she’s making me look like a fool!”.

I turned and marched towards the stadium without a backwards glance. I felt so ashamed and I could feel Ricky’s eyes watching me, before I heard him say “Right boys, lets crack on”.

What was I going to do? Go and abuse Heather for not passing on a message that I hadn’t even given her? Was I really going to berate the poor girl over something that was completely my fault? I approached her desk and said “Heather, a word please…” and then suddenly I was interrupted “It’ll have to wait, Jonathan can we speak in my office”. It was Mr. Al-Fayed and he did not look happy.

I took a seat in the all to familiar surroundings of Mr. Al-Fayed’s office, as he sat with his hands clasped together and began “Look at the state of you Wolstenholme. Your unshaven, you smell atrociously and you look like you haven’t slept for days. Now, I was willing to overlook your FA suspension because I thought they had been a little harsh on you. What I will not overlook is lateness and someone clearly not in the right mindset to lead a football club”.

I sat there silent, was he going to fire me? “I would be well within my rights to fire you right here and now…”, “Please don’t…” I pleaded. “For God’s sake let me finish” he barked. “That’s your problem, your always interrupting, listen to me! I want you to go home, take the rest of the day off and get yourself sorted out. Ricky has proved more than capable of keeping your seat warm”.

Was this his way of firing me? “This is your last chance Wolstenholme, mess up again and your out. We’ve had newspaper scandals and now this sorry charade. When I brought you to this club, I thought I was getting a world class manager who would act as an ambassador for Fulham and make us a real force to be reckoned with. But what I have got so far is nothing but problems. Your drinking in the last chance saloon now, make no mistake about it. I don’t know and quite frankly I don’t care where you were last week - you weren‘t where you should have been - at our matches - that‘s for sure”.

“I was away on business” I chirped in. “Don’t give me that rubbish, any official club business goes threw me first and your schedule was clear last week”. Damn it, my web of lies was beginning to spin out of control and I had been caught out. Al-Fayed continued “We’ve got a match against Rotherham in the League Cup on Tuesday”, “Yes sir, I know…”, “As your still suspended I had hoped you would join me in the director’s box for the match. Seeing as your being paid so handsomely, I think it only fair that you turn up for the odd game”.

A year ago I wouldn’t have let anyone talk to me like that, but how the times had changed, I sat sheepishly as Mr. Al-Fayed told me he would be entertaining some potential investors who were big fans of mine. He hoped that I would help him woo them. Normally, I would have greeted this with a resounding ‘no’, but he was showing me some mercy, so I agreed. “Now get out of my sight before I change my mind” he said, gesturing for me to leave his office.

Rotherham United vs. Fulham, Milmoor

It was a cold, wet and windy night in Yorkshire as my team prepared to take on League Two Rotherham. However, for me this was merely a sub-plot to the damaged limitations exercise going on in the directors box.

I felt totally out of place as I stood rubbing shoulders with the Russian based businessmen who were contemplating investing in the club. Still, as the champagne flowed and the match got underway, things took a turn for the better, with a certain ‘Mr. Chervenkov’ hanging on my every word as I regaled him with stories about my past job at Arsenal.

He was close to hysterics as I told him of the time that Robin van Persie had been sent off for kicking out at an opposition player in a league match and I had forced him to play in goal for our under-14 side the following day as a punishment. “You, Mr. Wolstenholme, have been a man I have admired for many years. You’re a real authoritarian, but despite your success have remained humble and are a real gentlemen of the game. I would be delighted to invest in any project that you are part of” he said.

Laughter filled the air for the rest of the night and as Mr. Chervenkov and his associates said their goodbyes, a beaming Mr. Al-Fayed came over and patted me on the shoulder. “You’ve done well tonight Jonathan, very well. The Russian’s have agreed to help fund a new training ground for our club. It’s going to be state of the art; with a gym, sauna, six full sized pitches and all the mod-cons a manager could ever wish for”. “Great” I replied, raising my glass.

Thank God that was over. After an evening of sucking up to corporate investors, I had missed just about every minute of the match going on below me. I later found out that we had destroyed the Millers 6-1, with Mauro Zarate bagging a hat trick and Streller, Norambuena and Sokratis completing the rout.

Rotherham 1 - 6 Fulham

I managed to catch Ricky just before he boarded the team bus. “Excellent work tonight mate. Your tactics were spot on and the players performed brilliantly. I’d like to thank you for taking the reigns during my suspension, but I’ll be back to take over tomorrow morning. I’m just going to go and congratulate the boys before you head off to the hotel”.

“I wouldn’t boss” Ricky said, “The lads are absolutely exhausted and we all just want to get some shut eye, it’s probably best to wait till the morning” and with that, Ricky stepped onto the coach, which quickly drove away, leaving me standing there all alone.

I felt like my role at the club was being marginalised. The team were doing just fine without me and the players now looked to Ricky for guidance. However, I was determined not to be undermined; this was my club and we were going to do things my way. I was the boss, not Ricky and I thought it was time certain people were reminded of that.

[tenthreeleader]

Good stuff from you so far. Welcome to FMS. Just a few minor formatting things to address and you are well on your way.

I take it you have already written this entire story, which is a good way to post here if you plan on doing it regularly. Looking forward to following along.

[JonWo]

Thanks I have finished the first part of the story, which is 42 chapters and I've recently started a follow on story which is so far 4 chapters long.

[JonWo]

Chapter 14: Manager of the Month

I was up bright and early the following day and was the first person at the training ground. The events of the previous night had left me worried that I was losing my authority in the dressing room. However, I had no one to blame but myself; if I wanted to regain my credibility, I would have to set a positive example.

As I paced round the training pitch; laying out the cones and putting up the nets, I noticed a gaggle of people standing around the dressing rooms. I went over to ask them what they thought they were doing, when one replied “Hello Mr. Wolstenholme, we are here on behalf of the FA to present the Manager of the Month award”. I was a little perplexed, not exactly sure what I had done to merit such an award, but it would be good publicity and get me back in the news for the right reasons, for a change.

“Excellent” I replied, forcing an uneasy smile “So what do you want to do; take a few pictures? Do a quick interview…”. The reporter looked surprised and then replied “Erm, I’m not sure how to tell you this, we did call in advance and asked if we could have a few words with Ricky Sbragia before we gave him his award. Is he unavailable or will you be collecting the award on his behalf?”

“Your awarding the Manager of the Month award to my assistant?”, “Yes Sir, those were the instructions we got from the FA, do you no if he will be available?”. Well, that was a little embarrassing for me, but my initial anger at the way I was yet again being overlooked at my own club quickly subsided. Getting angry hadn’t served me too well in the past and despite my resentment, I decided to let this one go. “He’ll be here at about ten-to-nine, if your going to hang around until then, just stay off the pitch, ok?”.

Ricky arrived a short time after and was immediately accosted by the reporters, who were taking his picture and thrusting the award into his hands. To say he looked a little shocked would be an understatement, as his eye caught my gaze, he hurriedly handed the trophy back and came over to where I was standing. “Morning boss. Look, I knew nothing about this Manager of the Month business. I’m fully aware that you’re the one in charge, so why don’t you go and claim the award”.

I put my arm around him and told him that he deserved to be Manager of the Month. He had performed miracles whilst I had been away, leading us to three straight victories. “Don’t worry about it mate, I’m happy for you. Now you can go and do your little PR bit, whilst I get the boys warmed up”. Ricky didn’t look entirely convinced by my show of support, but nonetheless, went over and did the interview.

With Ricky out of the way, I gave the players a warm welcome and exclaimed “The boss is back”. The players didn’t look to overwhelmed, but quickly buckled down as the training session got underway.

As the week progressed and I got back into the swing of being on the training ground everyday, there was a notable improvement in my working relationship with Ricky. It was like old times again, as we enjoyed some light hearted banter and prepared the team for the visit of Harry Redknapp’s Portsmouth.

Fulham vs. Portsmouth, Craven Cottage

Pompey had enjoyed a great start to the season and were currently lying fifth in the table, two places behind us. Me and Ricky had agreed that due to the physical nature of their game, we would replace Simon Davies with Fernando Meira in the midfield anchor role. However, there was a small disagreement over who should partner Mauro Zarate up front. Ricky wanted to keep the improving Streller in the line up, but I called rank and chose to play Rodallega instead.

I was confident I had made the right call and Ricky graciously replied “You’re the boss, it’s your call. I just think Hugo’s been looking a bit off the pace recently”. With my mind made up, I took the unusual step of leading my team onto the Craven Cottage pitch and received a warm round of applause from the home fans. They hadn’t seen me out in the middle for a while, so I wanted to make a grand entrance and briefly stopped to sign a few autographs before taking my seat in the dugout.

Expectation was high as the game got underway and the players picked up exactly where they had left off against Rotherham, by really forcing the issue in the early going. Both Rodallega and Larsson had efforts which narrowly went wide, but we didn’t have to wait too long for the first goal.

Giovanni whipped a fierce left footed cross into the box, the ball evaded the Pompey backline and fell kindly for Rodallega. However, Rodallega badly sliced his shot, sending it crashing into Sol Campbell. There was more than a hint of handball as Campbell controlled and then hoofed the ball into touch. Referee, Peter Kirkup agreed and wasted no time in pointing to the spot. With the crowd willing him to score, Sarigolu showed great composure and rifled the resulting penalty into the top left hand corner of the net to give us a 1-0 lead.

I applauded my teams efforts from the dugout and sat there contented as we continued to outplay Harry Redknapp’s side. As the half progressed, Portsmouth came into the game more and were beginning to look dangerous on the counter attack. “Keep it compact at the back lads!” I shouted. Unfortunately, my players didn’t seem to head my advice and as Norambuena ran out to the wing to close down Krancjar, the Croatian international played a defence splitting pass to John Utaka, who fired the ball past a hapless Tony Warner to bring the scores level.

There it was, that all to familiar head in hands moment, resulting from another defensive lapse. ‘How I’ve missed this’ I said to Ricky sarcastically. “Keep the faith lads, you can do this” he shouted onto the field. The players seemed to respond to his words of encouragement, but were struggling to break Pompey down for a second time. However, with the scores deadlocked and half time looming, a moment of brilliance from Mauro Zarate brought Craven Cottage to life.

Picking up the ball in the centre circle, he jinked past Diop and then Muntari, with the whole stadium beckoning him to unleash a shot from thirty yards out, he shaped to shoot. Campbell ran out to charge down the ball, but Zarate had sold him a dummy and knocked the ball past the former England defender. One on one with David James, he performed a feint, taking the ball around the ‘keeper and then slotting the ball into an empty net.

It was a great piece of individual skill and an early contender for goal of the season. It put an entirely different complexion on my half time team talk and as we headed down the tunnel at the break, Ricky pulled me to one side. He said Rodallega was looking really tired and we should think about bringing on a replacement. “Nonsense” I replied “He looked fine to me, I’ll give him the first twenty minutes of the second half and then make a decision”. “But boss, I really think…”, “Trust me on this one Ricky” I replied.

I implored my players to give me another forty-five minutes of exactly the same kind of football. However, they seemed to take this a little to literally and within eight minutes of the restart, another defensive lapse had gifted Pompey the equaliser. Norambuena was the culprit this time, his inability to quickly clear the ball had lead to Benjani dispossessing him. The Zimbabwean sprinted clear of our defence and then played a cross field ball to the grateful Utaka, who completed the simple task of steering the ball past an exposed Warner.

“Damn it” I shouted, hitting my hand against the dugout as the Pompey fans celebrated to my left. “Right, get Larsson off, he’s not doing enough today and bring on Streller” I ordered. “But boss, what about Hugo? He’s barely had a touch this half, I really think you should consider taking him off” Ricky implored. “I have thought about it Ricky and I’ve decided to leave him on, now tell Streller to get stripped”.

Ten minutes later, Streller dispossessed Glen Johnson and fed the ball out wide to Burke. Burke played a tantalising ball across the edge of the box. I was out of my seat in expectation as I watched Rodallega sprint towards the ball. I held my breath as I waited to hear the crowd roar, but instead there was a deafening silence, followed by the anguished screams of the Colombian.

He had pulled up, just as he was about to shoot. The physio ran onto the pitch as Rodallega writhed in agony. It looked really serious and moments later he left the field on a stretcher with an oxygen mask over his face. The fans rose to give him a standing ovation and I looked on helplessly as he was taken to the medical room.

Streller and Zarate looked visibly upset by the injury sustained to the their team mate and with a mood of gloom enveloping the stadium, the game petered out, with no more goals scored.

Fulham 2 - 2 Portsmouth

The result paled in significance to the well-being of my players and I couldn’t help but feel somewhat responsible. We sat solemnly in the dressing room after the game and none of us felt like talking football. Some of them went off to the hospital, whilst others headed back to their hotels.

As I made my way to the medical room to try and find out some information about his injury, I was quickly followed by an irate looking Ricky. “Jonathan, what did I say?! I told you he wasn’t fit to play the whole match and practically begged you to take him off. But you were determined not to listen and now we have a young lad sitting in the hospital who’s career might be over”.

“Don’t you dare try and put this all on me Ricky. So maybe I should have taken him off earlier, but you no the kind of player he is. He wouldn’t have wanted to come off whilst we were still chasing the game”. Ricky looked me straight in the eye and said “This one is your fault, it’s your job to protect the players. You could have prevented it and you know it. I just hope, that if the worst comes to the worst and Hugo isn‘t able to play again, that you can live with this on your conscience”.

And with those words Ricky left, again leaving me standing all alone. I knew what I had to do and headed off to the hospital to be by my players side.

[JonWo]

Chapter 15: A&E

I rushed into the accident and emergency unit and demanded to be taken to see Hugo. A doctor came over and told me that would not be possible, as he had been taken into the operating theatre to repair a double fracture to his foot and ankle. I was left stunned by what came next “Mr. Rodallega has sustained a horrific injury, one of the worst I have seen in all my time as a doctor. It’s too early to say yet, but he may never walk again”.

I listened on in horror, as the doctor continued “He had previously suffered a hairline fracture to his foot, that hadn’t properly healed. Mr. Wolstenholme, that man had no business out on that football pitch today, he was an accident waiting to happen”. “He seemed fine in training” I replied. “His blood work shows that he was given a pain killing injection prior to the match, but at a much higher dose than what is deemed to be acceptable. His foot would essentially have been dead weight, how he managed to run, let alone kick a football is a mystery”.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Who had authorised the painkilling injections and why wasn’t I informed? Maybe I had overlooked his poor performance and obvious injury just to get one over on Ricky, to show that I was in charge. This was too much for me to take in all at once and didn’t seem to make any sense.

I went back home, but was unable to sleep a wink. That morning I had awoken full of optimism and enthusiasm, but just twenty-four hours later, here I was dejected, carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders and potentially having ruined a young man’s life.

I didn’t want to sit moping around in my house on the Sunday, so decided to head into the office. As I drove to Craven Cottage, I went past a newsagent, with the board outside reading ‘Fulham Ace’s Horror Injury’. The story was all over the news, with most media outlets claiming that the Colombian’s career was over.

As I made my way to my office, I heard the phone ringing, so dashed inside to answer it. “Mr Wolstenholme, this is Dr. Stone, we met yesterday. I am pleased to tell you that Mr. Rodallega’s surgery went well and we are confident that he will walk again. However, as a precautionary measure, we will be keeping him heavily sedated for the next seven days”.

It was bittersweet news; I was glad he was responding well, but couldn’t help but feel terrible for his poor family, who would have to see their boy hooked up to all those machines, unable to communicate with them. I vowed there and then that I would get to the bottom of this; whoever had delivered that injection and whoever had authorised it would pay dearly.

It was all I could think about, but as the new week got underway and the team reported back for training, I had to put it to the back of my mind. A few of the players Hugo was close with knew about his condition and kept the rest of the squad up to date with his progress.

However, they were professionals and knew that the show had to go on. Despite the draw against Portsmouth, we had remained third in the league. Next up, we faced a daunting trip to our London rivals West Ham, who themselves were in brilliant form and were currently fourth in the division, only behind us on goal difference.

West Ham vs. Fulham, Upton Park

As the fans filed into Upton Park and the atmosphere rose, it was a nice touch to see some of our travelling supporters unravel a banner which read ‘Get Well Soon Hugo’. I told the players to expect a high octane game from the Hammers, who had completed a marvellous 1-0 victory over Arsenal in the previous match.

The only change to the starting line up saw Streller come in for Rodallega and as the players left the dressing room, I told them to put in a performance to make Hugo proud.

With only six minutes on the clock, the gloom that had been hanging around Fulham for the past week subsided somewhat, when Sokratis performed his party piece - nodding in a Chris Burke corner to claim his eleventh goal of the season. The away supporters went wild, mocking the West Ham fans with chants of “Who are ya?”. As the Greek international celebrated, he removed his shirt to display a message reading “We’re praying for you Hugo” on his vest.

The gesture received a round of applause from everyone in the stadium, Hammers fans included. But the cheering soon turned to boos, as referee Mark Halsey brandished a yellow card to the defender.

With emotions running high, the game became disjointed, but it was a typically fiery derby encounter, with the tackles flying in. Things came to a head in the twenty-fifth minute. To all the world, Lucas Neill’s two footed lunge on Fernando Meira was a red card, but Mark Halsey deemed it to only be a bookable offence. However, justice was served from the resulting free kick; quick thinking from Giovanni saw him scoop the ball over the wall to Streller, the Swiss forward took one touch, before firing the ball low and hard past Robert Green and into the bottom right hand corner of the net.

There were smiles and embraces all around the dugout as the goal went in. With the Hammers offering little in the way of an attacking threat for the rest of the half, I was delighted to get the boys in the dressing room at the break, to congratulate them on a job well done.

Shortly after the restart, we wrapped the game up with a perfectly executed route-one move. Sarioglu fired a long ball up field, which was nodded on by Larsson. Streller managed to beat Anton Ferdinand to the ball and his fierce shot was too powerful for Robert Green to handle and sneaked inside his near post to make it 3-0.

The West Ham fans registered their disgust at their teams performance with chants of “Curbishley Out!”. The Hammers looked well beaten and in the dying seconds of the game, Fernando Meira claimed his first goal for the club, to round off an excellent victory.

West Ham 0 - 4 Fulham

“For Hugo!” the players chanted after the game. Whilst we were obviously delighted by our emphatic victory, the players thoughts quickly turned to their stricken team-mate.

I searched everywhere for Ricky after the game, unusually for him he had not been present during the post-match team talk and I would later find out that he had left the ground straight after the game. A little unusual I thought, but the guy had been threw a tough time in recent weeks and our working relationship had become particularly fraught.

Nonetheless, it had been a good day at the office and as I relaxed at home that evening, I allowed myself just the one glass of wine, as I watched Match of the Day.

[JonWo]

Chapter 16: Revelations

I arrived at the hospital the following day hoping to have a word with Hugo; his medication was being turned down today and I hoped he would be well enough to speak to me and shed some light on the whole situation.

As I stood outside his room, preparing myself for what I might say, I was surprised to see him sitting up right, seemingly deep in conversation with a man. I couldn’t make out who the man was, as he sat with his head facing away from me, but I gently knocked on the door and walked in.

“Hello boss” Hugo said warmly in his broken English as I entered the room. As I approached his bed, the other man in Hugo’s room turned to face me - it was Ricky. “Morning, Jonathan” he said threw gritted teeth, clearly unhappy to see me there. He quickly put his coat on and then made his excuses and left, it seemed he didn’t want anything to do with me and it was clear that he still held me responsible for Hugo’s injury.

I didn’t try to stop him and was glad to get a moment to have a private word with Hugo. “So, how are you feeling, son?”. “Not great” he replied, “The doctor says I might never play again”. I looked at him sympathetically and then offered him some words of reassurance “You’re a fighter, son. If anyone can come back from this kind of injury, it’s you. And I want you to know that you will have the full support of everyone at the club during your rehabilitation”.

“Thanks boss, that means a lot to me” he replied, smiling. After briefly chatting about all the messages of support he had received from his team mates and well-wishers, I attempted to steer the conversation towards the events that happened on the fateful Saturday afternoon. “Do you remember anything about the injury, how it happened?”, “I remember some parts, but it’s a little blurry. I remember running for the ball and I remember the crowd were cheering really loudly. I was about to shoot… then everything just goes blank. Next thing I know, I’m lying in hospital, with all these doctors surrounding me”.

“So you don’t remember anything that happened before the match? Who you were with? Where you were? Anything like that?”. Hugo grimaced with a pained look in his eye, before continuing “No, I can’t remember anything from that day, apart from the match. Although, when Ricky spoke to me earlier, he reminded me that I was due to have a fitness test before the game, but he told me you said there wasn’t enough time”.

What? I had said nothing of the sort. I could not understand why Ricky would have told such a blatant lie; was he trying to force me out? Turn the team against me? “Did he really, what else did he say Hugo?“ As Hugo began to open his mouth to start speaking, his arms jolted towards his leg and he let out and anguished groan. I rushed to get a nurse “Quickly, there’s something wrong in here!” I shouted. A nurse came rushing in and calmly turned up Hugo’s morphine. “I think that’s enough excitement for one day. Mr. Rodallega needs to get some rest, maybe it would be best if you came back some other time”.

After leaving the hospital, I made a bee-line for Ricky’s house, determined to get the truth out of him. I knocked on his door but got no reply. I tried going round the back and looking threw the windows, but it appeared that he wasn’t there. In a last ditch attempt to contact him, I went to a nearby phone box and rang his mobile.

To my surprise, he picked up, “Where are you? We need to talk” I barked. But as soon as I had finished speaking, the line went dead. He was avoiding me, but I wasn’t going to let this die. He would have to speak to me tomorrow at the training ground, so I decided to bide my time.

There was a really uneasy atmosphere during training the following day and I was worried that the players would pick up on it. Me and Ricky hadn’t exchanged so much as two words all morning; he had gone to work with the defenders as soon as he arrived, whilst I was left dealing with the attackers.

As training progressed, I kept catching Ricky glaring at me out of the corner of my eye. Every time I tried to meet his gaze, he would turn his head away sharply. This was getting ridiculous, so I decided to resolve the situation once and for all and instructed the players to play a practice match - attack vs. defence. “Does that sound good, Ricky?” I shouted over. With no where left to hide, he begrudgingly agreed.

I walked over to Ricky as we stood on the touchline watching the training match. “I think it’s time we had a word” I said putting my arm on his shoulder. However, Ricky quickly shrugged my arm off and forcefully said “I’m here to do a job and I’m doing it. I’m not here to socialise, be your friend or anything else like that. So, unless you want to talk about training or tactics, leave me alone.”

And with that, he walked twenty yards down the touchline and stood with his arms folded. “You can’t keep running away Ricky, sooner or later your going to have to tell the truth” I shouted at him. Unfortunately, the players had heard me and they stopped their match instantly. “Tell the truth about what, boss?” Fernando Meira asked. “It’s nothing” I replied “Carry on with training”. “Look boss, if there’s something going on, then we deserve to know about it; is it about Hugo?”. “It’s none of your business, it’s a private matter, now get back to the practice match before I dock your wages”. Meira rolled his eyes, before urging the boys to carry on.

I didn’t know what to do next. Ricky was unwilling to talk to me and I could sense morale dropping even further in the dressing room with each day that went by. This was the worst kind of preparation we could have had as we got ready for one of our biggest games of the season, at home to Liverpool.

Fulham vs. Liverpool, Craven Cottage

It felt like I was going threw the motions as I gave the team their instructions before the game. The atmosphere in the dressing room was icy and I could tell the players felt like I was keeping something from them. Matters weren’t helped by Ricky again being absent from the pre-match team talk, but I soldiered on none the less.

“You were brilliant at times last week boys. If you give me that same level of commitment today, we are more than capable of getting a result here”. However, the traditional roar that had greeted the end of my team talk was replaced by an indifferent murmur, as the players ambled their way on to the field.

As I took my seat in the dugout, Ricky was still nowhere to be seen. I asked Dave Beasent if he had seen him, but he said he wasn’t on the team coach this morning. “He better have a damn good excuse for missing this one” I said, as Beasant nodded his head in agreement.

Football had almost become a sideshow in the past few weeks, but as the game got underway, I felt that familiar fire in my belly again. During the first ten minutes I was up and down, out of my chair more times than I could remember. It had been a dreadful start to the game, with the players struggling to get a foot hold.

“What the hell is going on out there” I shouted. I remained animated on the edge of my technical area, but it was no great surprise when Liverpool finally broke the deadlock in the fifteenth minute. A simple cross from Xabi Alonso found the head of Dirk Kuyt; the Dutchman was unmarked and had all the time in the world to place his header into the top right hand corner of the net.

We were 1-0 down and I couldn’t argue that we didn’t deserve it. “Come on boys! Where’s the passion?!” I shouted. In all honesty, Liverpool were not looking particularly threatening themselves, despite taking the early advantage.

It was a game of very little quality, with the Reds happy to monopolise the possession in the middle of the park. However, on the stroke of half time, we managed to claw our way back into the game. Giovanni seemed to have over-hit his cross into the box and it looked like a simple catch for Jose Reina. Inexplicably, the Spaniard opted to punch the ball, but didn’t connect cleanly. His punch landed at the feet of Zarate and with the open goal gaping, he claimed one of the easiest goals he will ever score.

The goal definitely brought the crowd to life, but as the half time whistle went, I couldn’t let this paper over the cracks of what had been an awful first half showing from the boys.

“Your very lucky to be on level terms here. Make no bones about it; your only still in this game because they’re playing almost as bad as you. Now what’s going on? Smarten yourselves up or you’ll be coming off - I’ll give you ten minutes and then they’ll be changes”.

The first ten minutes of the second half came and went and if anything, things got worse. I decided to shake things up drastically and made a triple substitution; Giovanni, Larsson and Burke were all having ineffectual games, so I replaced them with Seol, Dempsey and gave a first start of the season to one of our forgotten men - David Healy.

Both sets of fans were becoming restless at the way their teams were performing. However, Liverpool managed to find that spark that was so sorely missing from our team. They had a player who was a born match winner and with twenty minutes to go, he stepped up to the plate. The normally reliable Sokratis gave away a needless free kick on the edge of our penalty area. Steven Gerrard took a long run up, before firing an unstoppable shot, which nestled in the top right hand corner of the net before Tony Warner even had a chance to react.

I looked on deflated as the Liverpool captain strode over to the travelling supporters before being mobbed by his team mates. This really was one of the worst performances I had ever seen from one of my teams and even a late sending off to Javier Mascherano could not give us the impetus to grab a second equaliser.

Fulham 1 - 2 Liverpool

“Absolutely woeful” I screamed at the players in the dressing room. “You may as well have stayed at home today for all the commitment you showed. I could have put out our under-16’s side instead, at least they’d would have played with some pride”. All of the players sat with their heads bowed, “Have you got nothing to say for yourselves?”. The dressing room stayed deathly silent, so I instructed the players to get changed and board the team coach.

They were not going to get away with such an abject performance lightly. This was unacceptable, so I ordered them all to report for extra training on the Sunday.

With each passing day, this job becomes more and more intolerable. There always seems to be a new problem on the horizon and I can’t help but ask myself, why didn’t I just take the job at Old Trafford?

[JonWo]

Chapter 17: Mysterious Developments

After the defeat to Liverpool, I was in no mood to socialise. Frank was hosting another of his poker nights, he said there would be lots of high-rollers taking part and I could make a killing. However, I declined and headed back home to dwell on another disastrous week at Fulham.

No sooner had I got home and put my dinner in the microwave, than there was a knock at my door. That was strange, I didn’t normally get visitors, especially not at this time of night. I made my way tentatively to the front door and put the latch on before opening it, but know-one was there. Odd, I thought, I was sure I could hear knocking. I undid the latch and stepped out onto my porch. As I did this, I saw a hooded figure emerge from some nearby bushes and then sprint out of the gates.

Probably just kids messing around I thought to myself. However, as I turned around to go back inside, I caught sight of a note that had been stuck to the front of my door. I pulled the piece of paper off the door and struggled to make sense of the scrawled handwriting “Beware Mr. Wolstenholme, not everyone has your best interests at heart, some people are out to get you”.

‘Bizarre’ I thought to myself as I screwed up the ominously worded letter and threw it in the bin. It hadn’t really told me anything I didn’t already know, it seemed like everyone was out to get me at the moment. Although, I have to admit I was a little intrigued and somewhat perplexed by the note, I thought nothing of it and shortly afterwards, I retired for the night.

As I arrived at training on Monday - the players still disgruntled at having to come in for extra training on their day off - I ordered them to the canteen for a ‘clear the air’ meeting. Shortly before it got underway, Heather popped in to inform me that Ricky would not be available today because of a family crisis. Dubious though I was, I accepted the explanation and began “Look boys, I know it’s been a really difficult few months for all of you and I know there have been a lot of off the field distractions”.

As the players sat eating their breakfast, I continued “You all know that the performance on Saturday was completely unacceptable, but that is behind us now and we are going to start afresh. I want you all to go out and give it your all in each and every training session and game. If you do this, then I know we are good enough to leave our mark this year”. There were a few murmurs from the players, but it hadn’t exactly been the rabble rousing response I had hoped for.

However, much to my delight, my captain Fernando Meria banged his fist on the table and stormed “Oi! Listen up! I came to this club because I thought it was going places. I give my all in every game and would lay down my life to see us be successful. I don’t think that everyone in this room can say the same. It’s time to decide boys, if your with the boss and me then stand up. If your not, then you might as well walk out of that door now and never come back”.

Slowly, each and every player rose out of their seat to proclaim their devotion to the club. “Now that’s more like it” I said. “Right boys, five minutes and I want you out on that training field ready and raring to go. We’ve got an important match away against Blackburn on Saturday and if you perform like you did last week, were going to slip even further behind Man Utd and Tottenham”.

I didn’t see Ricky for the rest of the week, as it transpired that his father was seriously ill in hospital. Nonetheless, the camaraderie and enthusiasm seemed to return to the team as they began to enjoy training again.

Blackburn vs. Fulham, Ewood Park

For the first time in a long while I was genuinely looking forward to our next fixture, despite the seven hour journey up to Ewood Park. I had a real expectancy that things would be different this time around and the players would have learned their lessons from the past week.

I decided to stick with the same starting line up that had lost to Liverpool, but warned the team that their were plenty of players on the periphery of the squad, who were more than capable of stepping in to take their place.

And so to the match, Mark Hughes was someone I had always had great respect for; both as a player and as a manager. His Blackburn team had enough quality to cause us some major problems, but they were in a bit of a downward spiral themselves and were currently twelfth in the division.

We set a frenetic early pace and Blackburn just didn’t have an answer to a fluid passing and movement. With only two minutes on the clock I was racing out of the dugout, fists clenched, as Fernando Meira nodded in a Chris Burke corner to claim his second goal in as many matches.

“The captain leading by example, that’s what I like to see” I proclaimed to Dave Beasent, who was filling in for Ricky as my number two. The players really had the bit between their teeth now and were causing Rovers all kinds of problems. Three minutes later, Streller was upended by Stephen Warnock on the edge of the penalty area. Giovanni placed the ball carefully and then took a deep intake of breath, he feigned to shoot, but instead played a clever ball across the edge of the box to Streller. The Swiss international ran onto the ball and then struck a blistering shot that clipped the underside of the crossbar and bounced into the roof of the net.

I couldn’t hide my delight and was again out on the edge of my technical area whooping and hollering. I hadn’t enjoyed my football like this for a long while and there were still only five minutes on the clock. “Keep it up boys” I implored, beaming from ear to ear.

Of course, it would have been unreasonable of me to expect them to keep up this phenomenal level of performance for the entire ninety minutes and as the half wore on and the game settled down, Blackburn began to look more threatening.

However, as a dismayed looking Mark Hughes willed his team forward, we stung them with a blistering counter attack. Norambuena dispossessed Pedersen deep in our half, before spraying a long ball wide to Burke. Burke drove towards the touchline and fired a cross into Larsson. It proved to hot for the Swede to control, but his miss-kick fell kindly to Giovanni and with the Blackburn defence at sixes and sevens, he stroked the ball across the face of Brad Friedel to make it 3-0.

The silence around Ewood Park was deafening; Rovers were being dismantled by a splendid display from my team and looked to have run out of ideas already.

A flurry in the dying moments of the first half saw Burke all but secure our victory, poking the ball home after a scramble in the Blackburn penalty area. However, straight from the restart, Benni McCarthy ran threw our defence with ease before setting Pedersen free one on one with Warner and the Norwegian international kept his composure to dink the ball over the ‘keeper and restore a semblance of respectability to the score-line.

4-1 at half time and I couldn’t have been happier. “I asked for a response boys, but not in my wildest dreams did I expect that. Brilliant”. It made a refreshing change to be able to praise the players “It seems like attack is our best form of defence. Try and keep it tight for the first fifteen minutes boys and then just go out and express yourselves”. And there it was, the familiar roar that had been absent from our dressing room in recent matches returned, as the players took to the field for the second half.

The expected onslaught did arrive from Blackburn at the start of the half and within five minutes, they had clawed another goal back threw Benni McCarthy. However, this proved to be a mere blip on an otherwise brilliant afternoon, as we ran out comfortable 4-2 winners.

Blackburn 2 - 4 Fulham

After all the handshakes and celebrations were over and the players were exiting the dressing room, I said “You know what boys, you’ve performed so well today, that to make up for dragging you all in last Sunday, you can have both Sunday and Monday off this week”. I think that comment gained the biggest cheer of the day, with the players jumping on each others backs and planning what they were going to do with their evenings.

“Why don’t you come with us boss?” Chris Burke asked, I hesitated for a moment, but with all the team geeing me on, I agreed “Go on then, let me just go and pop my bag in my office and then I’ll come and join you”. Why not? I thought to myself, what could be better for team bonding that spending a night out on the town with my squad.

As the players waited in the lobby, I headed to my office to put my bag and jacket away. However, as I approached, I noticed that the light was on. That was odd, I was the only person who ever went in my office. I assumed it was just one of the cleaners though, but as I walked threw the door, I was shocked to find it wasn’t the cleaner at all…

[Balthazars]

Welcome JonWo. Your story is certainly an excellent read thus far, clearly you've put a lot of work into it over time.

Another suggestion regarding posts/formatting: each of your chapters is sizeable, there is plenty of material in there, which makes some of the posts a tad meaty. One suggestion might be to split the match report and the 'preamble' sections of each chapter into individual posts, which might make reading a little easier.

Up to you however, the writing itself is of sufficiently high quality that large posts isn't going to stop people from reading!

[JonWo]

Chapter 18: Ricky Sbragia

“What the hell are you doing!?” I shouted at the figure rummaging threw my desk drawer. “I‘m calling security… oh” I said as the figure unveiled himself, “Hi boss” he replied. “Ricky? What are you doing in here at this time, I thought you were with your dad?”. Ricky stepped away from my desk and replied “I’m just looking for my personnel file, I’m applying for a new passport and need an extra piece of I.D”.

“At this time?” I said in disbelief. “Yeah, well… I can’t find it, it’s probably in Mr. Al-Fayed’s office. Anyway… I’ll see you on Monday morning boss, I’m ready to come back”. There was an uneasy tone to Ricky’s voice that made me believe that he wasn’t being entirely honest with me and as he headed towards the door, I told him to stop, “Your not going anywhere”.

Ricky froze on the spot, “Wh… What do you mean? I’m looking for my personnel file”. “Cut the crap Ricky” I snapped “What are you doing in my office?”. “Nothing” he replied, “Well you damn sure aren’t going to find your personnel file in this drawer… what the?”. As I reached into my drawer, I found a bag containing what looked like a white powder and then all of a sudden everything made sense. “Is this coke Ricky? Are you planting cocaine in my drawer to try and stitch me up?” Ricky remained silent, he had been caught in the act and had no words to defend himself.

“Your after my job aren’t you? You knew that when someone found this in my drawer I would be fired on the spot and that would leave the job wide open for you. Now, I’ve seen some pretty despicable things in my life, Ricky, but this just about tops them all… I’m calling the police”. Ricky lunged towards me as I reached for the phone “No, don’t! Please, Jonathan, I’m begging you, don’t call the police. I’ll do anything… just don’t call the police”, he pleaded with a look of fear etched across his face.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t? Not only are you trying to steal my job, but do you realise if anyone found this in my drawer I would have been facing a prison sentence? It’s too late Ricky, you’ve made your bed and now it’s time for you to lie in it. Your nothing but a sneaky, manipulative little weasel”. Ricky looked frantic with worry and as his face contorted, it looked like he was about to cry.

In a last ditched attempt to save his skin he wailed “It’s not me Jonathan, none of this is me. I’m being forced into it”. “Forced into what and by who?” I replied, trying to make him squirm. “Colombians… they… threatened my family, what else was I supposed to do? They said that if Hugo didn’t play against Portsmouth… then my family would suffer”.

I recoiled in horror at what I was hearing, “Please tell me this is some kind of sick joke”. An emotional Ricky asked me to sit down and then divulged the full details of what he had been going threw. “There is a drug-trafficking ring in Colombia who bet huge amounts of money on sporting events. When Hugo joined us there was a surge in interest in English football from the Colombian public, namely the gambling community. You see, people will gamble over any event, but when that event features one of their own, someone they can relate to, their interest peaks”.

I couldn’t believe what he was saying, in fact, I wouldn’t believe it, surely this was too far fetched to be true. Ricky continued “I was contacted by someone calling himself Alejandro Muraz, who is apparently a notorious criminal in Bogota. He said that unless Hugo played and scored against Portsmouth, then I would never see my family again”.

“You know what Ricky, I may be many things but I’m not and idiot. Just accept that you have been caught out and take your punishment like a man”. I reached for the phone again, but this time Ricky dived out of his seat and wrestled me to the floor. “Do I look like someone who has spent the last few weeks trying to steal your job?”. He was right about one thing; his dishevelled appearance wasn’t exactly befitting of someone desperate to get his big break in management.

“Alright, I’m listening go on” I said pushing Ricky off of me and climbing back into my chair. “Jonathan, I know it wasn’t your fault that Hugo got injured. I know this because it was me who gave him that painkilling injection”. He was the one who had done the crime and tried to stitch me up for it. I couldn‘t hold back my fury anymore and leapt over my desk at Ricky, “Stop, please stop” he said, as he descended into tears.

“Do you think I wanted to do it? As soon as I’d given him the injection I knew I had made the wrong decision, but what else could I do? They threatened my family. Hugo had to play, Muraz said that if he didn’t score in that match then he would lose millions of dollars. When he came off injured, they sent someone over to England to find me, but I went into hiding. So they went for the person closest to me - my dad - and now he’s in a coma and the doctors don’t know if he’s going to pull through”.

I handed Ricky a tissue as he began to cry uncontrollably, before replying “They did this to your father? Why didn’t you go to the police?”. He tried to compose himself “Muraz said that if I went to the police, I would be handing my family a death sentence. He is part of one of the most notorious gangs in South America. I didn’t know what else to do, so I did the only thing I could, I told them it was your fault”.

“You did what?” I shrieked as panic and the enormity of what he was telling me began to sink in. “They have lost millions of dollars, Jonathan and someone must pay. But don’t worry the heat is off you, they have discovered that I am to blame and now I don’t know what to do. I can either stay and be killed or run and have them come after my family”.

‘Oh my God’. I thought as my heart pounded. The poor man, the stress he must have been under, I had to help him. “Ricky, go and get your family - all of them - and head to the airport. You can use the club’s jet, I’ll sort it out with Al-Fayed later. Just go, go as far away as you can and never come back. If these people are as dangerous as you say, you will only be a sitting duck here, go to Asia or Australia, just take care of yourself and your family. This is more important than football”.

Ricky jumped out of his seat, “After everything I have put you threw, you are still willing to help me. Jonathan, you are a true friend. I wish we had known each other under different circumstances and maybe one day we will meet again. But for now, I want you to know that I will eternally be in your gratitude. Tell the players I got a new job somewhere else, whatever. Tell them I wish them the best of luck for the future, but please, never let anyone know where I am”.

“Take care, mate” I replied emotionally, as Ricky headed out of the door, towards a new life of constantly looking over his shoulder. At least he was safe for now, but what this whole sordid episode had taught me is that there are something’s in life more important than football, namely the wellbeing of your family.

As I sat slumped in my chair, all my earlier bitterness towards Ricky drifted away. He had only been with us for three months but had left an indelible mark on me personally and I knew that the players would miss him just as much.

[JonWo]

Chapter 19: The Aftermath

As I looked up into the night sky and watched Ricky’s plane flying high overhead, I knew that I had made the right decision. From a purely footballing stand point, Ricky was a hugely talented individual, but he was also a troubled man and his troubles had caught up with him. He had to go, that much was certain, but it did leave me in a bit of a hole as to what to do next.

I had gone through two assistant managers in only five months and with that track record, I didn’t expect to have many new applicants clambering for a role which was fast becoming a poisoned chalice.

Before I got back to work there were a few loose ends that I needed to tie up, including the unenviable task of informing Mr Al-Fayed that the clubs jet was in an airport somewhere on the other side of the world. I had planned my explanation in minute detail and hoped that he would understand the predicament I was in.

“Mr Al-Fayed” I said, knocking on his door the following day. “Come in Jonathan” he called to me, “Now what can I do for you then?”. Mr. Al-Fayed had always had a strange air about him and as I took a seat, I felt like an unruly schoolboy who had been called in by the headmasters office. “I’m not quite sure how to say this, so I’m just going to blurt it out” I began, “Ricky Sbragia has left the club”.

Al-Fayed stared right threw me and barked “Why, what have you done this time?”. The sanctimonious old goat certainly had a way of jumping to conclusions, “As you know his father is gravely ill and there was little more the doctors could do for him in this country”. Al-Fayed’s expression softened as I said “So Ricky and his family decided to take him to Japan where they have a world renowned surgeon who is a specialist in head trauma injuries, like his fathers”.

“So why did he leave his job? I would have been more than happy for him to take a few weeks of on compassionate grounds”. “It appears that whilst he was in Japan and his father was in surgery, he was approached by a representative from Gamba Osaka”. “The football team?” Al-Fayed shrieked, looking flustered, “Yes and to cut a long story short, they offered him the managerial job and he said yes”.

Al-Fayed’s face went red as he let loose with his explosive temper “They’ll never get away with this! I’ll sue them for every penny they’ve got, Sbragia as well, he’s in breach of contract”. I hadn’t expected him to be happy about the situation and I figured he couldn’t possibly become any angrier, so I ploughed on with the rest of my story “And here’s the kicker, because Ricky said that his father was at death’s door and there weren’t any flights to Japan until the following day, I told him you wouldn’t mind if he used the club’s jet”.

Al-Fayed stood up from his chair and glared at me with the look of someone who wanted to rip my head off “My Jet? My jet!? You let him use my jet!” he stormed. “I wouldn’t have done it normally, but you have to admit, it was exceptional circumstances”. I was beginning to get a little frightened, the guy looked psychotic, so I tried to appeal to his more reasonable side. “You’re a family man Mr. Al-Fayed, if one of your family were clinging onto life by a thread, wouldn’t you want someone to do anything and everything they could to ensure they had a fighting chance of survival”.

My Oscar-worthy speech must have struck a chord with the chairman, as he calmed down and replied “Yes, I guess you right Jonathan. This isn’t your fault, you did the noble thing. How were you to know that the weasel would abuse our kindness?”.

I left Mr Al-Fayed’s office and breathed a huge sigh of relief. The secret was safe - for the time being, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before Al-Fayed would be demanding answers from the oblivious Japanese club.

The players bounded into training on the Monday morning, but it was my unfortunate duty to bring down their high spirits. “Ricky has been offered the managers job at Gamba Osaka and simply couldn’t say no to that kind of opportunity”. I watched as the players faces dropped; Ricky had always been one of the most popular men in the dressing room, cracking jokes and keeping morale high, but with him now in exile, this responsibility would fall on my shoulders.

As much as I wanted to get on with my life and my job; there were still some unanswered questions. The foremost in my mind was, who had left that note on my door and why? I didn’t even know where to begin looking for the answers, so just put it to the back of my mind and got on with the job at hand.

Steady, reliable, some may even say a tad dull, but Dave Beasant had never been anything but a consummate professional, so I offered him the role as my new assistant manager. He was delighted to accept the promotion and quickly adapted to his new job, as he oversaw training that week. I had had enough drama and upheaval from my assistant’s in the past, so his appointment made the most sense.

After such an emotionally charged couple of days, things were not about to get any easier. My predecessor at the Emirates, Arsene Wenger and his prodigiously talented Arsenal side were the next visitors to Craven Cottage. .

Fulham vs. Arsenal, Craven Cottage

They say that in football, a week is a long time. However, this past week in particular had felt like a life time. Amidst everything going on internally at the club, it had almost slipped under the radar that we were now second in the table and only four points behind leaders, Manchester United.

I wasn’t quite sure of the reception I would receive from the travelling Arsenal supporters, so I was pleasantly surprised as I took my seat in the dugout and received a generous round of applause from them.

Dave had taken over the preparations for this match and impressed on the players that it was essential we took something away from the game. He seemed to have done a good job of cajoling them during the pre-match team talk and we made a strong start.

Craven Cottage was absolutely rocking as we comprehensively outplayed the Gunners; with Streller, Larsson and Giovanni all going close in the opening twenty minutes. However, as we struggled to press home our advantage, Arsenal were beginning to look dangerous on the counter. We were almost made to pay for missing a hatful of chances, shortly after the half-hour mark.

Tomas Rosicky played the ball inside to Van Persie. The Dutchman turned Meira and attempted to curl the ball into the top right hand corner of the net. His seemingly goal bound effort was blocked by the hand of Armand Traore and the referee had no option but to point to the spot. I held my breath as Peter Walton reached into his pocket and was greatly relieved when he pulled out the yellow card.

He may have his detractors, but for today at least, Tony Warner was our hero, as he tipped the resulting penalty from Eboue onto the post and the ball was the cleared by Sarioglu. The fans responded like we had just scored a goal and Warner was soon surrounded by his team mates, patting him on the back.

It was Arsenal who were on top now and they dominated without scoring for the final fifteen minutes of the half. I got the players into the dressing room and told them to step things up a gear “If we are going to finish in that top four, then these are the types of matches and oppositions we have to beat”.

I brought a tired looking Larsson off during the break, but with Hugo out indefinitely, I was forced to turn to David Healy to try and get us the breakthrough. He had never really been a player I had rated, despite his impressive record for Northern Ireland. Still, the team needed some fresh-blood up top and with no other alternative, I sent him on.

And wouldn’t you know it; cometh the hour, cometh the man. Fifteen minutes into the second half, Meira picked up the ball in the centre of the park. He played a neat one-two with Streller, before dispatching the ball out-wide to Burke. Burke hit a first time cross into the heart of the penalty area and there was Healy to crash the ball home from six yards out.

The stadium erupted into joyous celebrations, as Healy celebrated near the corner flag. I simply stood on the edge of my technical area with my arms in the air and a disbelieving look on my face. Dave came up to hug me “Another tactical masterstroke boss” he said smiling.

However, our joy proved to be short lived and our celebrations a little previous. Just five minutes later, a mazy run from Eduardo saw him go past two defenders, but he was eventually tackled by Sokratis. However, the ball ran loose and straight into the path of Van Persie, who proceeded to hit an unstoppable shot into the back of Warner’s net.

You can’t legislate for things like that and rather than be annoyed, I had to accept that we had just witnessed a truly world class effort from the forward.

The game was now balanced on a knife-edge, but I felt that the momentum was shifting in Arsenal’s favour. We were dealt a hammer-blow shortly after, Traore received a second yellow card for scything down Diarra and was sent off against his parent club. He was forced to do the walk of shame past Wenger, who stood shaking his head.

To their immense credit the players dug in during the final twenty minutes and managed to manfully withstand a fully fledged onslaught from the Gunners. As the final whistle sounded, I waited by the tunnel with my backroom staff to applaud the players as they left the field.

Fulham 1 - 1 Arsenal

“You left it all out there on that field today boys and whilst we may not have got the win, I couldn’t be more proud of you”. As the rest of the team got changed, I caught sight of a distraught looking Armand Traore sat all alone in the corner of the dressing room.

“Armand, come here” I said, he came over to where I was standing “Don’t be too hard on yourself, these things happen. Even the best players in the world have their off-days and unfortunately for you that day was today. Luckily, the team managed to hold out without you, but can you do me one favour in the future?”, “What, boss?” he replied “Don’t handle the ball in the area, that’s the goalies job” I said, giving him a friendly slap across the back of the head. It seemed to cheer him up and he headed off to the showers quietly chuckling to himself.

So the week ended on a high note, but nonetheless, I was sure it wouldn’t be one that I would look back on too fondly in the years to come.

[JonWo]

Chapter 20: Mr. Suave

With my life back on track and my problems all put to one side, I finally feel ready to concentrate on the reason I was brought to Fulham; making the team successful. Our stoic rear-guard in the second half against Arsenal had shown me a previously unseen battling spirit in the squad. I felt like we were on the cusp of becoming the finished article and a real force to be reckoned with in the Premier League.

We were about to enter the hectic Christmas period and I knew that our results during the next few weeks would go a long way to shaping the outcome of our season.

As I put up the decorations and decorated the tree in my house, I was yet to be overcome with Christmas spirit. You see, before I could fully focus my attention back on coaching and management, Mr Al-Fayed had ordered me to do an interview live on Sky News, explaining the murky circumstances surrounding Ricky’s exit from the club.

I had received a very carefully worded manuscript, written by the chairman himself, detailing in miniscule detail how I was to respond to any potentially difficult questions from the anchors. After being burned so badly by Jim White on Sky Sports News, I had vowed never to work with the channel again, but this was different. I had tried to bury my head in the sand, but the media had become increasingly sceptical about our version of events regarding Ricky’s departure. Mr. Al-Fayed had said that we owed it to our fans to once and for all, set the record straight and as the main figurehead at the club, that duty fell on my shoulders.

As I made my way into the studios, the enormity of the event finally dawned on me. This wasn’t a story that was going to be restricted merely to the sports pages - this was front page news. As the production staff and cameramen buzzed around me, I tried to resist their insistence that I go and ‘tidy myself up’ in the make up department. “The public want the real deal, not an air-brushed, idealistic version of me, I’m fine as I am” I snapped. I was out of my comfort-zone and felt uneasy, I had studied the script I had been given over and over, but I would have been lying if I said that I wasn’t nervous about the interview.

As I prepared to go live and was fitted with my microphone, I was greeted with a friendly smile by my chief-interrogator, Kay Burley. Paranoia swept over me, this woman had the potential to make my life very difficult for the next thirty minutes, so I opted for a charm offensive. “Good afternoon, Ms. Burley, might I say that you are looking particularly lovely this afternoon”.

“Thank you, Jonathan, your not looking too bad yourself” she said with a distinct lack of sincerity in her voice. The cameraman counted down “5-4-3-2...” and then pointed at Kay as the programme reconvened.

Kay Burley: “Hello and welcome, your watching Sky News, here are the headlines at the top of the hour; scores of victims are feared dead as wild fires spread across West Africa; the actress, Megan Fox, has been found dead in her Cincinatti home after reportedly taking an overdose of prescription drugs and finally, in sport, George Burley faces a fierce backlash in Scotland after his team succumbed to the most humiliating defeat in their history, going down 3-0 at home to Andorra. And now, we have Lisa Burke with the weather forecast”.

As the programme cut to the weather report, Kay whispered for me to stop slouching in my chair “Big smile Jonathan, lets make this a really memorable interview”.

Kay Burley: “Welcome back, now many of you will have heard about the stories surrounding Fulham Football Club and the departure of popular assistant manager, Ricky Sbragia. One time Bolton coach Sbragia left his role as assistant to Jonathan Wolstenholme earlier this month, to join Japanese J-League side, Gamba Osaka. However, there has been persistent speculation in the media that there may be a little more to this story than we first thought. So, joining me at this moment we have the esteemed manager of Fulham, Mr. Jonathan Wolstenholme.”

The camera panned over towards me and I forced a toothless smile as Kay looked on, with a clear twinkle in her eye.

Kay Burley: “Now Jonathan, you and Ricky always seemed to get on so well together. I think you will agree with most of us neutrals, that for two people who enjoyed each others company and were doing such a good job at Craven Cottage, that Ricky’s departure was a bit of a bolt out of the blue”.

Jonathan Wolstenholme: “Yes, it was a big surprise to me personally. But I think Ricky saw this as his big chance to make a name for himself on the world stage. He is a great friend and always will be and I think it would have been selfish of me to stand in the way of his dream to become a respected manager in his own right”.

With the first bullet dodged, I began to grow in confidence and my nerves eased.

Kay Burley: “I think the thing that has perplexed a lot of people is that despite being in the job for over a week now, there has been no mention of Mr. Sbragia’s appointment from Gamba Osaka, not so much as a mention on the clubs website”.

Jonathan Wolstenholme: “I think that much of that is down to Ricky himself, he’s always been a low-key kind of guy and has never chased the limelight, he prefers to get on with his job in a quiet manner. Football comes first with Ricky and I think Gamba are just biding their time before they make the big announcement - this is a real coup for them”.

I had become quite adept at lying during the past few weeks and as Kay probed, I continued to repel her questions with my merry web of deceit.

Kay Burley: “So, Mr Al-Fayed is a notoriously ruthless businessmen, how has he reacted to having one of his top talents poached by another club?”

Jonathan Wolstenholme: “Myself and Mr. Al-Fayed have an excellent working relationship and he has the utmost faith in my judgement. However, he understands that there are a few things that you just cannot control and Mr. Sbragia’s departure was one of them. Everyone has their dreams and Ricky’s was to be his own boss. As a successful entrepreneur and businessman, Mr Al-Fayed respects his choice and wishes him the very best for the future”.

I sensed Kay was becoming agitated, the big scoop she had hoped for was not materialising and it forced her to resort to a desperate and underhand line of questioning.

Kay Burley: “During your tenure at Fulham, you have endured a tempestuous ride and are now looking for your third assistant manager in as many as five months if I remember correctly…”

I wasn’t blind, I could see the direction she was trying to steer the conversation, so quickly intervened.

Jonathan Wolstenholme: “Actually Kay, we have already appointed a new assistant manager. Dave Beasant will be my new number two, he has great experience and I think his knowledge will be a great asset to the team”.

Kay’s eyes began to wander as she looked around the studio in search of some guidance from the production staff. Far from her grilling me, I had turned the tables and her ‘big’ interview was turning into something of a damp squib. She attempted to regain her composure and in desperation, began grasping at straws.

Kay Burley:“So, what do you say to those conspiracy theorists out there who are suggesting that Ricky’s sudden departure wasn’t anything to do with joining up with Gamba Osaka, but something else more sinister. I wont go into details, I’m sure you’ve heard the rumours, what would you say to these people?”

Even with Kay beginning to get close to the real story, I remained supremely confident. She wasn’t the kind of serious journalist who would instil fear in a person. I could see it all, she was reading of the auto-cue; so I gave my carefully scripted answer to her carefully scripted question.

Jonathan Wolstenholme: “I think most people give the conspiracy theorists short shrift. They’re the type of people who like to make a mountain out of a molehill and look for the double-meaning in everything you say. All I will add is that at Fulham, we have been completely transparent with our fans and the public, we have nothing to hide”.

With the interview now dead in the water, the channel cut to a commercial break. I rose out of my seat and triumphantly removed the microphone from my ear.

This was real shot in the arm for me, I had never been the most eloquent when it came to being grilled by the media, but I had come out of this interview with flying colours and couldn‘t wait to hear Mr Al-Fayed‘s response. With Kay’s reputation in tatters, she sat through the commercial break with her head firmly pressed in her hands.

She wasn’t a bad looking woman, so I decided to throw her a bone. I instructed a member of the production staff to pass her my phone number, “She’s in a committed relationship” one of them added, “It doesn’t matter” I said, “It always helps to keep your options open”.

[mametz1536]

Kay Burley - Playing with fire - Love the story

[JonWo]

Chapter 21: Christmas Spirit

As I made my way through the corridors inside Craven Cottage, it seemed like everyone at the club had entered into the spirit of the season. I walked past the reception desk and a beaming Heather “Good morning Mr. Wolstenholme” she said. As I continued towards my office, I was accosted by Mr. Al-Fayed, who was stood with his arms wide open. “Here he is. Jonathan, you did a terrific job yesterday. You were cool, calm and a real professional, well done my son”, he said ruffling my hair.

I was finally in the chairman’s good books and things were beginning to look up. I joined Dave on the training ground and noticed that he was working on a new corner routine with the boys. I watched as Burke drilled the ball to the edge of the box and then saw Giovanni crash a fierce volley off the crossbar.

“Wow, I like that, is this one of your ideas, Dave?” I asked “Yes boss, it’s just a little something I thought we might try out”. “Well, if we can pull that off in a match situation then not only could it prove to be a great addition to our arsenal, but were also going to be seeing some spectacular goals. Good work Dave, I like to see people showing some initiative”.

I gave Dave a friendly pat on the back and then headed back to my office to review some tapes of our next opponents, Everton.

Fulham vs. Everton, Craven Cottage

It was a blisteringly cold night in South London, as an arctic breeze swept around the ground. Twenty years ago, this fixture would have been postponed, but with modern technology and our under-soil heating system, the pitch looked as good as ever for this vital League Cup quarter final tie.

As the players huddled in the dressing room, I told them they were only two games away from Wembley “Were going to need to come out of the traps quickly tonight boys. Everton have got some good players; so Sokratis, I want you tight on Johnson and Norambuena, get in Yakubu’s face and make life as difficult as you can for him”.

The only change to the starting line up saw Stefanovic come in for the suspended Traore, much to the chagrin of David Healy. I took a moment to console the striker and told him not to feel too down as he still featured heavily in my future plans.

As the players ran out onto the field to thunderous applause from the home fans, I briefly exchanged a few pre-match pleasantries with David Moyes before taking my seat in the dugout.

With the game only three minutes old, we opened the scoring with a clinical counter attacking move. James McFadden lost the ball in the middle of the park and Meira collected, before quickly switching the ball out wide to Giovanni. The Mexican winger used his pace to ease past Tony Hibbert and then pulled the ball back to the edge of the area. It fell kindly at the feet of Mauro Zarate who side footed an inch-perfect effort into the top left hand corner of the net.

The two South American’s celebrated by dancing around the corner flag in front of our cheering supporters. “Great goal, terrible dancing” I joked to Dave as we both stood on the edge of our technical area. Dave clapped his hands together and shouted “Keep it up boys, we’ve still got a long way to go”.

No sooner had we taken our seats, than we were back up celebrating another goal from Zarate. It was almost a carbon-copy of the first effort, with McFadden losing the ball in midfield and Giovanni feeding the Argentine forward, who made no mistake from eighteen yards out.

I could see David Moyes was beside himself on the touchline and he kicked out in anger, sending a drinks bottle flying. However, his Everton team came back strongly and within two minutes of the restart had grabbed one back, with a corner routine that had been the hallmark of my teams strong start to the season. Steven Pienaar lofted a ball into the area and found the head of Yakubu, who had stolen a march on Norambuena, the Nigerian powered his header past the despairing dive of Tony Warner.

What an opening ten minutes. Despite leading, it was Everton who had their tails up now and they began to enjoy some prolonged pressure. However, I was happy to see that my defence hadn’t let their heads go down after conceding and the Toffee’s were struggling to break us down from open play.

With half time approaching and the game experiencing a bit of a lull, Sokratis intercepted a stray pass from Yakubu and strode out of the defence and across the halfway line. He played a give-and-go with Streller, before clipping the ball wide to Giovanni. Giovanni dinked the ball into the area and with his back to goal, Larsson attempted an audacious over-head kick.

The entire crowd were in unison, letting out a gasp, as the Swede’s effort crashed off the top of the crossbar. However, the ball bounced out high into the air and remained in play, Giovanni was the quickest to the rebound and completed the simple task of heading the ball home from four yards out.

It proved to be the last meaningful act of the first half and I was delighted to get the players back in the dressing room at the interval, having re-established our two goal lead. “They were three goals of the highest quality boys, great work. We need to be weary of this lot in the second half though. We’ve already seen their a dangerous team in and around the area, so lets keep it tight at the back and maintain our energy levels”.

The second half started slowly and with ten minutes gone, I decided to give Healy a run out in place of the tiring Larsson. However, just five minutes later, a calamitous mistake from Tony Warner brought Everton right back into the game.

Tim Cahill hit a speculative effort from all of forty yards. It looked like a simple save for the ‘keeper, but he fumbled the ball straight into the path of Yakubu who couldn’t miss from ten yards out and quickly grabbed the ball out of the net and carried it back to the halfway line.

However, my team showed the steely determination which had earned them a draw against Arsenal and Everton were unable to press home their advantage. With just ten minutes to go, we put the result beyond any doubt, with Sokratis heading home a Giovanni corner, to make the score 4-2.

With the Greek defenders name being sung from every corner of Craven Cottage, we compounded Everton’s misery by scoring a fifth. And it was that old fox in the box, David Healy who was on hand to apply the finishing touch. Everton had been unable to clear a Chris Burke corner properly and as Stefanovic arced a diagonal cross back into the area; Streller nodded the ball down and Healy poked the ball home from six yards out.

The delight on his face was clear for all to see as ran towards our dugout to celebrate with the other substitutes. If he had hoped to send me a message with his exuberant celebrations, then he needn‘t have bothered, his goal-scoring exploits had done more than enough to capture my attention.

Fulham 5 - 2 Everton

There was a real buzz in the dressing room after the game, with the players shaking hands and congratulating each other on another excellent performance. “That was magnificent boys, you tore them to pieces out there. Keep playing like that and we’ve got every chance of winning this competition”.

As I walked back up my driveway that evening, I couldn’t take the smile off my face. It seemed that belatedly, I was being overcome by the Christmas spirit and for a change, everything was going well.

However, as I approached my house, I was stopped in my tracks. There, fluttering in the wind, was another note pinned to my door. I looked around my garden, worried that I might not have been alone. As I tentatively approached the door and removed the note, it read “One down, one to go. Watch your back Wolstenholme”.

[JonWo]

Glad you guys are liking the story. Personally, I think the second half of it is better, so I'm going to plow along with a few posts to try and catch you all up.

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Chapter 22: T’was the Night Before, the Night Before Christmas

A wave of paranoia swept over me as I entered my home, quickly shutting the door, locking and bolting it. This was different to the first note, which I had disregarded as nothing more than a prank, this was a direct threat to me and I was frantic with worry.

Not wanting to be alone in my house that night, I threw some clothes into a bag and headed to my car. I pulled out my phone and rang the only person I could think of “Hello, Frank, it’s Jonathan”. “Oh, hello Jonathan mate, it’s been a while. What are you up to?”, I tried to sound composed as I replied “Frank, I’m coming over, I think I might be in danger”.

Before Frank even had a chance to respond, I hung up and then sped out of my driveway, across London to his house. As soon as I arrived, I began thumping on the door and it wasn’t long before a baffled looking Frank answered. “Whatever is the matter” he said inviting me in, “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost”.

I had to confide in someone or I was going to drive myself insane, so over the next ten minutes I told a dumbfounded Frank about everything; Hugo‘s injury, Ricky‘s disappearance, the Colombians and the menacing notes I had been receiving. “Oh my God” he replied when I had finished, “So, do you have any idea who might be sending you these notes?”, “I haven’t a clue, but they obviously know an awful lot about me”.

Frank struggled to find the right words to comfort or make me feel any better. “Your one of my best mates and if your in trouble, I’ll do anything I can to help. If you don’t want to go home then your welcome to stay hear for as long as you want, but I’m due back in Spain tomorrow”.

Me and Frank talked into the small hours of the morning, as he packed his suitcase. Just after 3am, I managed to get a few hours sleep, but I was due back at the club the following day, to lead my players in one of our festive excursions to see the children at Great Ormand Street hospital.

As I watched the players mingling with the youngsters; signing autographs and handing out Fulham memorabilia, I managed to briefly take my mind off the threatening notes and force a smile. As we chatted and played with the terminally ill kids, I put my own problems into context. Some of these brave children, barely even ten years old, might not live to see another Christmas, so we had a duty to help make this one they would never forget.

I invited those well enough to leave the hospital to Craven Cottage for our match on Sunday against Tottenham. I had promised them the full VIP treatment; they would get to sit in the directors box, be paraded on the pitch at half time and have their photo’s taken with the team.

It was a very humbling experience for a lot of the players to see these kids so overcome with joy at the chance to see their sporting heroes in action. I only hoped we could make their day on Sunday, by providing a great performance and more importantly, a win.

Fulham vs. Tottenham, Craven Cottage

You can say what you like about Mr. Al-Fayed, but my respect for the man increased tremendously as he took it upon himself to look after the children from Great Ormand Street. He even invited the club mascot, Terry Bytes, to come up to the director’s box and keep the children entertained during the match and seemed to take great delight in making it a special day for them.

However, down in the dressing room, me and Dave were hard at work giving the team their final instructions. This was a huge match for us; Tottenham were in third place, one position below us in the league and a win hear would really consolidate our grip on second.

Traore returned from suspension and David Healy got his first start of the season, in place of Larsson. I tried to remain focused as I took my place in the dugout, but with the threatening notes still at the forefront of my mind, it was proving easier said than done.

I sat slouched in my seat, blankly staring into space as the game got underway. I felt like I had been zoned out for ages, when all of a sudden I was snapped out of it as a huge roar echoed around the arena. I looked up and saw Dave standing on the edge of the technical area, clapping with a huge smile on his face.

I slowly ambled out of my seat and went and stood next to him. I began clapping, as I looked up at the score-board, which read ‘1-0’, with the words ‘Sokratis, 17mins’ just beneath. “What a goal, Sokratis!’ I shouted half-heartedly before returning to the dugout.

Dave gave me a strange look and then took his seat next to me. “Is everything alright boss, you seem a little out of sorts?” he asked sympathetically. “Yeah, everything’s fine, I’m just feeling a little under the weather. I’m just going to go and see if the physio’s got any paracetemol, but I should be right as rain for the second half, I’ll see you in the dressing room”.

I sat in the dressing room for the next half hour, watching the game on a monitor and tried to pull myself together. When the players eventually clambered in during the break, I stood up and said “It’s a good start boys, but a one goal lead is never enough. Let’s see if we can’t kill this game off in the second half”.

I returned to the dugout for the restart and told Dave I was feeling a lot better. The first fifteen minutes went by in a flurry, but there were no real goal scoring chances for either team. Healy wasn’t having the best of games, so I told Larsson to go and get himself warmed up.

However, no sooner had I sent Henrik out, than Healy had got on the end of a through ball from Zarate and taken the ball around Paul Robinson before coolly slotting it into the back of the net. Craven Cottage erupted and I rose out of my seat to celebrate, as Healy pointed to the name on the back of his shirt in front of our ecstatic supporters.

“Fernando looks like he’s picked up a knock, boss” Dave said to me. The Portuguese star did seem to be limping and with my thoughts flashing back to Hugo’s injury against Portsmouth, I quickly hauled him off and brought Davies on in his place.

We really were beginning to play some great football and our ball retention was superb. The Tottenham players were struggling to get a foot on the ball and the home crowd were loving every minute of it.

As the clock ticked down and the game neared it’s conclusion, Healy thought he had grabbed his second of the game, after heading in a Giovanni corner. However, the referee adjudged that he had pushed Ledley King in the build up and ruled the goal out.

However, it didn’t put a dampener on our afternoon and as Howard Webb blew the final whistle, the fans all rose to their feet to salute the team on yet another fabulous victory.

Fulham 2 - 0 Tottenham

The players celebrated in the dressing room afterwards with some champagne, laid on by Mr Al-Fayed to help them get into the Christmas spirit. There were huge cheers when I announced that there would be no training on Christmas Day, but urged the players not to over do it, as we faced a trip to Everton on Boxing Day.

They stayed and mingled with the children for an hour, before going home to get ready for a night out. “Will you be joining us, boss?” Dave asked. “Oh no, not tonight” I replied “I’ve still got some last minute shopping to do”. “Well, have a good’un then mate and I’ll see you in a couple of days” he said, before making his way to his car.

I didn’t have any shopping to do, infact, I didn’t have any plans at all for Christmas Day. I wanted to keep a low profile, so headed back to Frank’s house with a case of beer in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other - Merry Christmas me.

[JonWo]

Chapter 23: Christmas Fixture Headache

‘Ow, my head’ I thought as I was awoken by the gleaming sunlight pouring through the window of Frank’s bedroom. I turned to look at the clock, which read ‘7:03’ and groaned before pulling the bed covers over my head and trying to get back to sleep.

But to no avail, it was the kind of hangover I only got after a marathon session on the booze and yesterday - Christmas Day - was the triathlon of boozing marathons. They say you should never drink to forget, but after the month I’d had, I was drinking to avoid thinking about everything going on in my life.

I had woken up shortly before 9am and enjoyed a bottle of champagne to help wash down my morning cornflakes. I then dragged Frank’s forty inch plasma television up to his bedroom and set about having my own John and Yoko style Christmas. Except, as a more attractive alternative, I had my case of lager to keep my company.

As I ploughed threw the beers, watching repeats of Only Fools and Horses and The Royle Family; I hazily remember going back downstairs at one point, to put my own slant on the traditional Christmas dinner. And now, as I was sat up in Frank’s bed hoping that the world would swallow me up, I turned to my left and saw what looked like the remnants of a pizza, with beans on top and a cigarette stubbed out in the middle.

That would explain my mouth tasting like I had licked the inside of an ashtray then. I fell out of bed and stumbled back down the stairs, I needed something to perk me up, I was due on the coach up to Liverpool in just over an hour.

After a shower, a shave and copious amounts of coffee, I put on my smartest suit and made my way to the training ground, where the coach was waiting. It was a minor miracle that I had managed to get there on time and I made a very plausible attempt at pretending to be my normal self. I ushered the players onto the coach before taking my seat next to Dave at the front.

“Good Christmas then, boss?” he asked, not looking too chipper himself “Oh yeah, it was great. I went round to my parents for lunch and then came back to mine, watched some rubbish tv and got an early night. You know, just the usual”. “Good, it’s important to spend some time with the family at Christmas” Dave replied.

I could have asked Dave about his Christmas, although it was obvious it had been similar to the one I had actually had. However, I felt that if I didn’t sleep this hangover off now, then I would be in no fit state to do my job properly later on.

Everton vs. Fulham, Craven Cottage

After a five hour nap on the coach I felt like something resembling my normal self again. The players seemed in fine voice and had obviously taken my advice of taking it steady on the booze a lot more seriously than I had.

So, it was Everton again. Just over a week since we annihilated them 5-2 in the League Cup, we were facing once more. I told the players that the Toffee’s would be desperate to gain retribution for the embarrassing defeat we had inflicted on them and warned against complacency. “You know all about these guys by now; there tough, physical, but there nobodies mugs”.

A healthy travelling contingent had followed us up the motorway to Merseyside and they were determined to make their voices heard. As the game got underway, for the first time that I can remember, the fans were in full voice and singing my name.

As my backroom staff passed the paracetemol around the dugout and gave each other a knowing smile, the players were suffering know such hangovers on the pitch and really took the game to Everton, who had employed a spoiling 4-5-1 formation.

However, in the face of stern resistance from David Moyes’s men, my team eventually made the breakthrough just short of the half hour mark. Fernando Meira stood over the corner, in front of the heckling Everton supporters. He ignored the baiting of the fans and delivered an inch perfect cross, onto the head of Sokratis - who else - and he powered the header past Tim Howard to give us a 1-0 lead.

Everton were offering very little going forward and the crowd were beginning to get restless. David Moyes responded by reverting to a 4-4-2 formation allowing his team to play with more attacking freedom.

Although they did begin to pose us a few more problems, they could do nothing about the strike which gave us a 2-0 lead, just before the break. Giovanni was upended by Lee Carsley on the edge of the box and it was Streller who stood over the ball. Not for the first time this season, the Swiss international had called rank on his team-mates over free-kick taking duties, but he well and truly delivered; firing a devilish shot, which swerved left and right, before nestling in the top right hand corner of the net.

I could do nothing but stand and applaud as Streller received the adulation of his team-mates and the fans.

My half time team talk was simple, “Continue playing as you have been doing and this lot will fold. They’re there for the taking boys, just go out and play your game”. The only concern in an otherwise perfect first half showing, was the reoccurrence of a hamstring injury sustained by Meira in the previous match. Unwilling to risk it getting worse, he was again replaced by Davies.

I had barely had time to retake my seat in the dugout before the game was over as a contest. Simon Davies had hit a looping cross into the area, which was only partially cleared by Phil Neville. The ball fell kindly at the feet of Zarate, who darted past Hibbert and then Neville, before scooping the ball over the on rushing Howard and he was off celebrating before the ball had even hit the back of the net.

“Quality” I exclaimed, as Dave nodded in agreement. However, Everton did manage to pull one back just ten minutes later and I am sorry to say that it again resulted from a blunder by Warner. James McFadden had hit a tame effort which looked like easy pickings for the ‘keeper, but in a manner resembling that of Massimo Taibi at Manchester United all those years ago, he let the ball trickle threw his legs and into the goal.

Dave wasn’t happy, “I’m not going to let him forget that one in a hurry” he said, with a look of disappointment on his face.

Still, I tried to regain perspective, it was only a blip during an otherwise strong performance from the boys. Zarate added his second in the dying moments to really compound Everton’s misery and it was the Fulham fans who were chanting loudest as the game came to its end.

Everton 1 - 4 Fulham, Goodison Park

As the final whistle sounded and I went over to commiserate with David Moyes, he joked in his droll Scottish accent “I’ll be glad to see the back of you lot, well played mate”.

Goodison Park was empty apart from the Fulham fans who had stayed behind to celebrate. After a brief chat in the dressing room, I instructed the players to go back out onto the pitch and show their gratitude to those who had made the long journey up North to support them. They responded by throwing their shirts into the delirious crowd and spending some time signing autographs.

However, our celebrations were cut short. I would challenge anyone to find a manager in England who enjoys the Christmas fixture period and it’s relentless schedule. We drove straight back down to London that night and with only two days to recover, began our preparations for our home fixture against lowly Birmingham.

I told Dave to go easy on the boys in training the next day and focus on keeping their spirits high. I had a lot of paperwork to catch up on and with the transfer window not far away, I was already receiving bids for some of my players.

A frankly laughable 200k offer from Rennes for Henrik Larsson was in the shredder before I even finished reading it. However, there were a few offers that I was willing to consider. I wanted Antti Niemi gone and quickly, so agreed on a 1 million fee with Middlesborough and Spanish side Valladolid for the Finnish internationals signature. It would be up to them to convince the poisonous rat to sign on the dotted line.

Fulham vs. Birmingham, Craven Cottage

My battle weary troops arrived at Craven Cottage determined to give it one last big push before the year ended. Birmingham had the potential to be a bit of a banana skin for us, but we knew that if we played to our maximum ability, we would have no problem sweeping Steve Bruce’s relegation plagued team aside.

I was forced into resting both Meira and Burke for this match, Dave has said that they have been looking exhausted in training, so I decided to give them the day off. Davies and Dempsey came in for the pair, in an otherwise unchanged starting line up.

Steve Bruce’s men had clearly come into this game knowing they had nothing to lose and it was they who seized the early initiative, as we began to look jaded. Forsell and Summer signing Michalis Konstantinou both had efforts that were well saved by Tony Warner, but our attacking threat was none existent.

With twenty five minutes on the clock, Streller picked the ball up in the centre of the park and made a driving run threw the heart of the Birmingham midfield. As he shaped to shoot, he was clattered by Radhi Jaidi and I watched on helplessly as the physio dashed out of the dugout to assess his condition.

The boos and whistles abounded from the stands as Jaidi got away with little more than a telling off from Mike Riley, but it proved to be the end of Streller’s involvement in the game, as he limped off the field. A fired-up Henrik Larsson sprinted onto the pitch to take his place and relayed my instructions to revert to a 4-3-3 formation.

With three minutes to go until half time and with little change to the pattern of play, we conjured a goal out of nothing. I say ‘we’, when I really mean ‘he’ - Sokratis. The Greek defender collected the ball from Warner’s throw out and galloped out of defence, he feinted to pass wide, but kept on running, crossing the halfway line. With the midfield backing off, he steadied himself and from all of thirty-five yards unleashed one of the most ferocious efforts you are ever likely to see. The ball bounced off one post and along the goal line, before clipping the other post and diverting into the goal.

Me and my backroom staff sprang out of the dugout, celebrating and embracing each other, as the players piled on top of the Sokratis. “What a goal… WHAT A GOAL!”, I couldn’t stop saying it. I have seen some strikes during my career and that one was right up there with the best.

What a way to lift the mood going into half time and the players were still congratulating the defender as they headed back to the dressing room. I tried, but failed to hide my grin as I said “We need more from you boys. Birmingham look well up for this game and you just know there going to come out for that second half like a house on fire. We need to up the tempo and grab an early goal to kill the game off”.

We just about managed to withstand the early onslaught from the visitors and with ten minutes of the second half played, Chris Burke stood over the corner. The crowd waited with baited breath as he swung his cross in; as the players scrambled to win the header, the anticipation grew. But there was to be only one result, Sokratis out-leapt the Birmingham defence and with the accuracy of a sniper fired his header past Richard Kingson in the Birmingham goal.

The initial cheers eventually made way for chants of “Sokratis, Sokratis, Sokratis” from the home fans and I was tempted to join in myself. He had been an absolute colossus since his Summer move from AEK Athens.

Dave strode out into the technical area and gestured for the players to remain calm, we didn’t want them getting complacent and letting Birmingham back into the game.

With just over an hour on the clock, a player with a point to prove came to the party with an excellent individual effort. Ridgewell’s suicidal back pass went straight to Henrik Larsson, the former Sweden international who had lost his place to David Healy, swept past Djourou and then Jaidi, before firing a low shot past Kingson and into the bottom right hand corner of the net.

I remained seated but sat there clapping and admiring a brilliant solo effort from the forward. The result was now academic, but as the play progressed and the final whistle neared, a party atmosphere enveloped Craven Cottage, as the crowd cheered every pass and shot.

Fulham 3 - 0 Birmingham

What a way to end the year! We had dispatched a potentially difficult opponent with ease and the fans were bringing the house down with their boisterous chants of “There’s only one Jonathan Wolstenholme”.

I gathered the players in the dressing room and paid homage to their spirit in coming threw such a difficult period with some great results and a new found togetherness. “Don’t bother coming in tomorrow or the day after that…” I shouted, jokingly. The players looked shocked, as I continued “… because I don’t want to see any of you until the New Years eve party”.

The dressing room erupted as all the players began cheering at having the next few days off. What could I say? They deserved it and I was looking forward to a great party and a chance to start the New Year with a clean slate - God knows, I need one.

[JonWo]

Chapter 24: I Get By With a Little Help From My Acquaintances

“Were gonna party like it’s two-thousand-and-eight” Clint Dempsey shouted as he made his grand entrance to the Estoria nightclub. He was closely followed by the rest of the Fulham ‘glitterati’, as I liked to call them.

Dressed up to the nines and with young women fawning all over them, the players were in their element. “The night is young” Armand Traore crowed whilst surrounded by a bevy of beauties on the dance floor, as the music pumped and the party came alive.

I had opted for a more subdued entrance and hurriedly made my way through the back door of the club, shortly before 10:30pm. “The gaffer is in the house” I heard, as Simon Davies pointed in my direction. The players waded over to me and began arguing over who was going to buy me my first drink, “This round is on me” I proclaimed, to cheers from the players, “Now point this man to the bar”.

I was determined to have a good time and forget all my past troubles. The players jostled for position behind me as I ordered ten bottles of Crystal from the bar. The barman gave me a shocked look and told me to make my way to the VIP area and said he would deliver the drinks to our table.

As I struggled to make my way through the bustling crowds, I spied Mr. Al-Fayed sat in the VIP lounge. He beckoned me over and with the players following me like lost children, we approached his table. “Evening gentlemen” he said. “Are you having a good time Mr. Al-Fayed?” an eager to impress Mauro Zarate chirped in. “I’m having a wonderful time Mauro, thank you very much. That was a magnificent goal you scored yesterday” Al-Fayed said, whilst smiling.

The players quickly dispersed to different corners of the club as they honed in on their pray for the night. That left just me and Mr. Al-Fayed and despite our previously uneasy relationship, I felt more at ease with him now that I was back in his good books. “This is some party” I said, “Nothing but the best for my team” he replied.

We spoke at length about the team and how things were going, but as the drink flowed and the New Year approached, I left Mr. Al-Fayed and wished him a happy New Year. “Oh, one thing Jonathan. Make sure your still hear when the guests of honour arrive. I guarantee you wont be disappointed”. I smiled and made my way to the toilet.

Had Mr. Al-Fayed really ordered us all a stripper? I thought to myself, as I washed my hands. Sure, the drink was getting to me and my rational thinking had gone out of the window, but hey, this was a party after all.

As I began to make my way out of the toilet, a bunch of well dressed men pushed there way past me. “Oi, watch where your going” I shouted. “Watch who you are talking to, boy” came the reply. I couldn’t help but look incredulous and with my heightened sense of bravery, shut the door and made my way back into the toilet. “What did you just say?” I said, placing my hand on one of the men’s shoulders.

He turned around with a look of pure anger on his face, but as he caught my eye, his expression softened and turned into a smile. “Mr. Wolstenholme… surprise!” came the response, “We were coming to visit you as Mr. Al-Fayed’s guests of honour, but you’ve caught us ‘on the hop’, as you say”.

I would have recognised that familiar European accent anywhere, it was Mr. Chervenkov. I have to say that I was quiet relieved after all of that, I was heavily outnumbered, with all of Mr. Chervenkov’s bodyguards swarming around me. “Dmitri”, he shouted to one of the tuxedo-bound brutes “Dmitri, come and say sorry to Mr. Wolstenholme for offending him”.

The nigh-on seven foot tall monster came over and in an almost comically squeaky voice said, “Please forgive me Mr. Wolstenholme, I meant no offence”. I decided not to push my luck and forgave him. “Let’s leave the lavatories, shall we?”, Mr. Chervenkov said, placing his hand over my shoulder and leading me back into the club.

With the blaring music and bustling noise coming from inside, Mr Chervenkov lead me to the exit door. Mr. Al-Fayed was waiting for us outside and as we all stood in the dingy alleyway, he began “Great news Jonathan. Mr. Chervenkov and his associates have decided to invest more of their capital in our project”. Chervenkov continued “We are putting forward fifteen million of your English pounds to ensure that the soon to be great Fulham Football Club becomes the English champions, how does that sound Mr. Wolstenholme?”

I smiled uneasily, I couldn’t help but detect sinister undertones in Mr. Chervenkov’s voice, but replied “Excellent, the squad really needs some reinforcements at the moment and fifteen million will go a long way”. Mr Chervenkov raised his glass, “So were all in agreement; to Fulham, the next champions of the English Premier League”. “Here, here” Mr. Al Fayed responded.

What? Were they saying that they wanted the title this year? That was ridiculously optimistic. I looked around at all their smiling faces and felt unable to register my objections. “To Fulham… Premier League Champions” I murmured, raising my glass.

Mr. Chervenkov really did have this aura about him. I couldn’t exactly place him, the best way I could describe him was as a character out of Goodfellas or even the Godfather, he had that unspoken authority.

As I heard the countdown beginning, I made my excuses and headed back inside. “10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1... Happy New Year!” the excited crowd shouted, as 2008 kicked off to the sounds of the Black Eyed Peas. As I bounded over to the players, to celebrate with some less intense fellows, I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket.

I quickly diverted and made my way to the toilets “Hello” I shouted, as I tried to hear over the music. “Hello” I shouted again, I pulled the phone away from my ear, unable to hear anything and then tried again “Hello?”. Then, in a mumbled foreign accent, the caller replied “One down, one to go…”. My heart started pounding, “One down, one to go, Mr. Wolstenholme”. As I listened on in horror, I could hear screams in the background. I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like “Help me! Help me!”.

“Who is this, what do you want?!”, I screamed, overcome with hysterics. “We want what is due to us Mr. Wolstenholme… otherwise, he dies…” came the reply, followed by a hideous cackle that chilled me to my bones. “Or who dies? Or who dies?! Who is this?!” I wailed.

I continued to hear the blood curdling screams, as the voice continued, “Did you really think we wouldn’t find him? We have eyes and ears all over the globe Mr. Wolstenholme and if you don’t meet our demands, that is all that will be left of your little friend”. I could hear the crack of what sounded like a whip, followed by more screams and a familiar voice, begging for mercy.

There was no doubt in my mind - it was Ricky. “Stop, stop it!” I pleaded, “Name your price, just don’t kill him, he has a family”. “Do you think it is that simple Mr. Wolstenholme” the voice spat, “We don’t want money, we want you”.

As I struggled to find the words, the doors of one of the lavatories swung open, it was Mr. Chervenkov, he fixed me with a steely gaze before holding out his hand. Struggling to come to terms with what I was hearing, I placed the phone in his hand. “This is Roman Chervenkov, who the f**k is this?!” he said in his authoritarian manner.

I could hear over the speaker that there was no reply, “If you dare to threaten Mr. Wolstenholme, then you are threatening one of the highest ranking men in the Russian government”. Chervenkov, put his hand over the receiver and asked me for Ricky’s name. “If Ricky Sbragia is not returned safe and unharmed within the next twenty four hours, you will pay for this with you lives, do you understand?”.

The line went dead and Chervenkov handed the phone back to me, “Your friend Ricky will be returned safe and well, I guarantee it”. Mr Chervenkov winked at me and then left as if this kind of occurrence was the most natural thing in the world to him. However, the call had rocked me to the core and I left the club shortly after, in a daze of fear and bewilderment.

[JonWo]

Chapter 25: The Handover

Knowing that Ricky could well be lying dead somewhere right now gave me nightmares just thinking about it. I sat in disbelieving silence on my sofa, staring off into space. All I could hear was the sound of fireworks exploding and drunken revellers making their way home.

I sat there for hours, as I replayed each and every haunting moment of the phone call over and over again in my head. As dawn broke and the dust was beginning to settle on everyone’s New Years Eve celebrations, my slumber was broken by the loud ringing of the telephone.

I could barely bring myself to answer it, afraid of what I might hear. It rang and rang and rang, unable to take the incessant noise anymore, I grabbed the phone and answered “Who is this? What do you want?”. There was a pause and then to my relief, the response came “Mr. Wolstenholme, this is Roman Chervenkov, there is a car waiting outside your home. I want you to stop whatever you are doing and enter the car. I will be waiting for you at your destination”.

The phone line went dead and sure enough, as I looked out of my window, I could see a black Mercedes-Benz, with tinted windows. I was into two minds about what to do; did I take Mr. Chervenkov’s word and get in the car or remain here, in the relative safety of my home.

I didn’t have a clue what was going on and this, as much as anything, frightened the life out of me. However, I knew what I had to do, so I picked up my coat and headed out towards the car. As I approached and heard the engine revving, the passenger door slowly opened. I began to have second thoughts, but then I saw Mr. Chervenkov’s bodyguard Dmitri sitting in the back seat “Hurry Mr. Wolstenholme, time is of the essence” he said.

As I stepped inside and Dmitri slammed the door shut, the driver sped off and before long we were careening down the motorway. Dmitri sat there avoiding my gaze, “Where are you taking me? Is this about Ricky? Is he alive?”. Dmitri turned to me, then looked away again. With tears beginning to fill me eyes and overcome with emotion, I shouted “Tell me where your taking, why are you ignoring me!?”.

I sat glaring at the huge man, begging for answers. He eventually replied “Mr. Chervenkov instructed me to collect you from your house and ensure that you arrive at your destination safely. I cannot disclose any further information at this time, it will all become clear soon”. I slumped in my chair, I wasn’t going to get anymore information out of this numbskull, so I was just going to have to sit tight and prey.

After about an hour the car came to a sudden holt and as I peered out of the window, I could see a deserted shoreline and then all of a sudden there was a banging on the window. Dmitri reached over and wound the window down. It was Mr. Chervenkov and he silently gestured for us to get out of the car.

Mr. Chervenkov began shaking my hand and insisting that there was nothing for me to worry about “Your friend Ricky will be fine”. I wasn’t willing to accept any reassurances, I couldn’t relax until I knew that Ricky was safe.

We stood looking out towards the sea as the tide went out. Mr. Chervenkov and Dmitri were speaking to each other in what sounded like Russian, but as the seconds became minutes and the minutes became hours, I was angry that I was being kept out of the loop. “What the hell is going on, what are we doing here?” I shouted.

Mr Chervenkov simply smiled and said “All will become clear”. I couldn’t take it anymore and snapped “No not ‘all will become clear’, we’ve been stood here for nearly two hours now, tell me what the f**k is going on you Russian moron!”. Chervenkov and Dmitri stood silently in amazement, with the huge bodyguard looking at me with rage in his eyes.

The tense stand off was broken up by the sound of a motor humming and on the horizon, I could see a small speedboat hurtling towards the shore. Mr. Chervenkov and Dmitri began laughing, “Now do you see Mr. Wolstenholme, when Roman Chervenkov gives you his word, he always delivers”.

As the boat got nearer, I could just about make out that their were two people on board. The boat came to a holt just yards away from the beach and as I looked on in horror, I saw one of the men throw the other into the sea and then speed off out of sight. Chervenkov’s mouth dropped and his eyes glazed over. All three of us ran out onto the beach and began wading into the sea.

‘He hasn’t resurfaced’ I thought as I frantically tried to get to where the limp body had been thrown. “He is here! I have him” Dmitri shouted. As we clambered out of the sea, our clothes soaked, Dmitri carefully placed the man on the floor. I didn’t want to look, but with an air of resignation I did and there it was, confirmation - Ricky‘s motionless body sprawled out on the sand, with no signs of life.

His eyes blackened, his body bruised and with blood oozing out of his ears, I knew he was dead. We all stood sombrely but I was overwhelmed with grief and began to cry. My grief soon turned to rage “You said he would be returned unharmed, you said you always deliver on your word. But look at him Roman. Look at him” I screamed pointing down towards Ricky.

Chervenkov stood there silently with his head bowed. “Shall we throw the body back into the sea?” Dmitri asked. “No were not chucking the f***ing body back into the sea; he has a name, his name is Ricky” I screamed. “Well he’s not much use to anyone now” came the dopey giants reply. I had heard enough and wasn’t prepared to let anyone talk about my friend like that. I lunged at Dmitri and we both fell onto the sand wrestling, as he tried to restrain me.

“Stop it this instance you two” Mr Chevenkov ordered, “Look” he said pointing to where Ricky’s body lie. We stopped grappling instantly and as we turned to face Ricky, my eyes lit up.

He was coughing, he was coughing up water - he wasn’t dead. I pushed Dmitri off of me and knelt down next to Ricky “Ricky, Ricky… can you here me mate? Ricky, it’s Jonathan…”. Ricky continued to cough up the seawater, as I pleaded with him to respond.

As the coughing eventually subsided, he wearily opened his eyes. “Boss?” he said trying to force a smile. “Wh… Where am I?”, “It’s alright now mate, no ones going to hurt you, were going to take you to the hospital”. Ricky coughed again and then smiled “You’re the best friend anyone could ever have… Oh my God, who are they? Behind you Jonathan… behind you!!”.

Ricky began screaming hysterically, as I tried to explain who Dmitri and Mr. Chervenkov were. However, I couldn’t seem to get through to him. Mr. Chervenkov leaned over and gently said “He probably has, as you say, the ‘post traumatic stress’”. “Get him away, get him away… Jonathan he’s right behind you” Ricky continued to scream and rive around on the sand.

I pulled out my mobile phone and rang for an ambulance. Ricky was clearly still suffering the devastating psychological effects of his time in captivity. He seemed like a shell of his former self and I barely even recognised the feeble, frightened man cowering on the floor in front of me. As we waited for the ambulance I promised him that I would be there to help and care for him as long as he needed me.

[JonWo]

Chapter 26: Happy Belated New Year

Chervenkov and Dmitri had made a hasty exit and as the ambulance arrived, sirens blaring, I hovered over Ricky, talking to him to ensure that he didn’t lose consciousness. The paramedics took control and fitted Ricky with a neck brace, before placing an oxygen mask over his mouth and carefully carrying him into the ambulance.

After the short drive to a nearby hospital, Ricky was whisked into a cubicle. I attempted to follow him, but was abruptly stopped by a nurse, who said “Family only, I’m afraid. You will have to wait outside”.

I spent the whole of New Years Day sat in the waiting room, desperate to find out about Ricky’s condition. I looked on as people came in and out of the hospital and saw every imaginable horror; from the homeless man who had been glassed during a fight, to the little girl who had come in for her first bout of chemotherapy.

As I began to nod off, the same nurse came back out of Ricky’s cubicle with a grim expression on her face. “Jonathan Wolstenholme” she enquired, “Yeah, that’s me” I replied, climbing out of my chair. “I think you should probably sit down for this, sir”. I felt a lump in my throat, as she continued “Mr. Sbragia has sustained severe injuries to his head and torso; he has four fractured ribs, a ruptured spleen and clotting on his brain”.

“Oh no” I whimpered, “The doctors and surgeons are confident that he will recover from his injuries, but the head trauma he has sustained looks like being permanent”. I sat there aghast and asked the nurse what it all meant, “His body will be able to function as normal, but he is likely to suffer from severe amnesia and will struggle to remember anything about his past; his family, his friends, etcetera.”

As I sat there disconsolate, the nurse put her arm around my shoulder “He needs you to be strong for him Jonathan. We cannot get in touch with his family, so he needs you now more than ever”. “His family are abroad” I mustered. The nurse explained that Ricky would need to stay in the hospital for at least another month, but said that after that, he should be well enough to come home.

“He can come and stay with me” I said, “This is a big commitment, Mr. Sbragia will need a lot of care and attention, I don’t want you to take this decision lightly”, the nurse replied caringly. I thought back to all the good times me and Ricky had shared together. Although it had been a somewhat tempestuous relationship, I wasn’t going to leave him isolated in his time of need, “Just phone me when he’s ready to be released” I said, “I’ll do whatever it takes to help him get back on his feet”.

I left the hospital in a taxi and made the hugely expensive journey back to my house. The relief of knowing that Ricky would survive swept over me as I fell into my bed that evening, but I hadn’t made that promise on a whim. I was determined to stand by my former right hand man and help nurse him back to full health.

With Ricky on the mend and the dalliances of the past forty-eight hours behind me, I was up bright and early the next day. I felt like a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders; the source of the menacing letters had been discovered and put to rest, there was now just the small matter of a football club to manage.

We were up at second bottom Derby County that afternoon. Although my head was still all over the place, as I sat on the coach listening to Dave drone on about how he ‘nearly pulled’ at the New Years Eve party, I felt a sense of normality returning.

Derby County vs. Fulham, Pride Park

So, here we were, 2008 - who would have thought I would have lasted this long? It was very much business as usual as I conducted the pre-match team talk with the players. We were second in the league, but a huge six points behind current champions, Manchester United and with the Al-Fayed/Chervenkov mandate to win the title this year, I knew there was no room for a slip up here at Pride Park.

The injury sustained by Streller during our previous match against Birmingham had been worse than first thought and he was now out for three weeks. This meant a return to the starting line-up for Henrik Larsson, with Alexei Smertin also gaining his first start of the season, due to the fact that Fernando Meira was still feeling a soreness in his hamstring.

As the game got underway and I saw my patched up team labouring against one of the leagues also-rans, I couldn’t wait to get to work in the transfer market, spending some of the 15 million Mr. Chervenkov had so generously afforded me.

The game reached the twenty minute mark and with little to really whet the appetite of the fans, the atmosphere around the ground quelled. I, however, was really enjoying this welcome distraction to my off the field problems, but as I gazed around the stadium, I caught sight of Mr. Al-Fayed and Mr. Chervenkov grinning and waving at me from the directors box.

I looked away sharply, ‘Just what I need’ I thought. Eager to impress and look like I was in control, I clapped my hands together and implored the players to pick up the pace and show a bit more attacking creativity.

It really was a poor match, I began to wonder where all the slick passing and clinical finishing of our previous games had gone. Things seemed to go from bad to worse as we spurned a guilt-edged chance to take the lead. Larsson received the ball from Giovanni in the penalty area and just as he was about to pull the trigger, he was bundled over by Andy Todd. Even the Derby fans could not argue, it was a blatant penalty.

Sarioglu stood over the spot-kick and as I readied myself to celebrate, I looked on in disbelief as his daisy-cutter trickled into the grateful arms of Stephen Bywater. “What the hell was that?” I yelled, as expletives rained down from the bench. “I’ve just about had enough of that over confident little twerp. Who takes a penalty like that? Just burry the bloody thing”.

Luckily, with just under fifteen minutes to go until the break, we eventually got the breakthrough. Although, it was hardly vintage play. Chris Burke fired in a free kick from the angle of the penalty area, it fell to Norambuena, who’s weak header looked to be heading wide. However, James McEvely instinctively stuck his boot out to prevent the ball going behind the line and his clearance rebounded off Mauro Zarate, with the deflection deceiving the ’keeper and looping over his head into the net.

We didn’t know whether to laugh or celebrate on the bench, but after a short while eventually did the latter. Bizarre and undeserved as it was, we had taken the lead.

It proved to be the last meaningful contribution of the first half. The players filed into the dressing room and me and Dave chatted quietly amongst ourselves about how we wanted to rejuvenate the side in the second half. There were a few gasps from the players as we decided to haul off Sarioglu, but everyone had a soft spot for Moritz Volz - the dressing room joker - who came on to take his place.

The second half was, if anything, a more inane and disappointing affair than the first. We had looked a little more creative in midfield, but our finishing was way off the mark, with David Healy being the main culprit.

I would have instantly hauled him off if I had any viable alternatives on the bench, but the squad was running on empty so I persisted with him, as he squandered chance after chance.

It was a good job we were playing such a poor Derby side because just about every other team in the division would have had a field day against us. We somehow managed to compound our victory just two minutes from time. Zarate dropped deep to pick up a pass from Smertin and hit the ball forward to Healy, the striker unsuccessfully tried to shimmy past Todd, but managed to divert the ball through to Larsson. Larsson swept past Claude Davis and then rifled the ball underneath Bywater to confirm our 2-0 victory.

Derby County 0 - 2 Fulham

Although the players may have been congratulating each other on the pitch, once I got them in the dressing room it was an entirely different story. Sure, I had been in a somewhat jovial mood prior to kick off, but after what I had just seen, I was not prepared to let the players off lightly.

“Shocking, terrible and just about every other derisory term you can think of” I stormed. “You can all count yourselves very lucky to be coming out of that with a victory today. It’s a good job that their more useless than you were because if it had been anyone else, you would have got stuffed”.

Gone was the pre-Christmas feel good factor; I wasn’t here to be the players friend, so I left them with something to ponder, “The transfer window has just re-opened boys, I’ve never been one to stand on ceremony, so if you don’t shape up, and quick, then you will be heading for that exit door faster than you thought possible”.

Was it a tad harsh? Maybe. But with the burden of expectation weighing me down, I couldn’t afford to be carrying anyone in this squad.

Reflecting back, I could have told the players that they had done well to dig deep and scrape a victory on a day when they weren’t performing - that is, after all, one of the hallmarks of a title winning team.

[JonWo]

Meh, I think I'll just post the entire first story, give it a few days and then start posting the second story

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Chapter 27: Comings and Goings

With the New Year off to a winning, yet unconvincing start, I felt that now was the time to freshen up my squad. My two main objectives were to bring in a new goalkeeper and striker, to make up for the loss of Hugo and the soon to be departing Antti Niemi.

However, what with the relative paucity of top class goalkeepers around at the moment and with even fewer clubs willing to do business midway through the season, I opted for a stop-gap solution.

I was again on the phone to my former chairman at Arsenal - Peter Hill Wood - enquiring about the availability of Manuel Almunia. Hill-Wood made it abundantly clear that the Gunners did not want to sell the Spanish stopper, but after explaining my predicament to him, he agreed to allow him to join us on loan for the rest of the season, on the proviso that he could be recalled at twenty-four hours notice.

Dave was particularly delighted with the capture of Almunia and quickly set about making the ’keeper feel right at home at Craven Cottage. He introduced him to the rest of the players and a not to happy looking Tony Warner. As training began, I pulled Tony to one side and explained that although he had been brilliant for us this year, we needed more strength in depth.

This didn’t seem to placate him “So shall I pack my bags now or are you going to wait until the end of the season before getting rid of me?” he asked. I smiled “Don’t be silly mate, we have absolutely no intention of getting rid of you. Actually, the main reason I wanted to speak to you was to offer you a new two year contract; were going to be doubling your wages and there’s also a one-grand clean sheet bonus in there as well”. His eyes lit up with a look of shocked joy on his face “Really?”, “Really mate” I replied, “The contracts waiting on Mr. Al-Fayed’s desk, we just need you to sign on the dotted line”.

And with that, Tony bounded over to Mr. Al Fayed’s office to sign his new contract. It felt good to have made Tony’s day, after all, I couldn’t imagine the mess we would have been him without him.

As the week progressed, I looked on from the touchline as Dave delivered some harsh home-truths to our underperforming players. I had decided to take a backseat in training this week and had been busy trying to coerce clubs to do business with me over the signing of a new striker.

However, most managers were either unwilling to sell or quoting hugely inflated prices. Although I was determined to bring in at least one more player during this transfer window, I was not going let the club be held to ransom.

With our next fixture away to League One Oldham in the third round of the FA Cup looming on the horizon, we had a surprise and frankly unwelcome visitor to the training ground. It was Antti Niemi and as he made his way over towards us, the players stopped their session and began staring at our former ‘keeper.

“I thought I told you to stay away” I barked at the sheepish looking Finn. “I’m not staying long, I just thought I’d come and tell you guys that I‘ve agreed to join Middlesborough” he said. The players looked on indifferently as he continued “I know a lot of you feel that I have let you down and I am truly sorry for my actions. Whilst I don’t expect any of you to forgive me, I’d just like to say that I’ve really enjoyed my time here and I think it’s a smashing little club, I wish you all the very best for the future”.

We all stood silently for a moment, before I chimed in “Well don’t expect any hugs and kisses Antti, you’re a traitor and that’s how we’re all going to remember you. You’ve said you piece, now leave before I call security”. Niemi stood there dejected, looking around at his former team-mates, maybe hoping that one of them would speak up and wish him well, but none of them did. I lead a chorus heckles and jeers as he walked back towards his car and out of Craven Cottage for the last time as a Fulham player - good riddance.

Oldham Athletic vs. Fulham, Boundary Park

We were at Boundary Park in the FA Cup for the traditional curtain-raiser to the new year. Although the Latics were flying high in League One, I wasn’t anticipating any problems this afternoon.

That said, I was particularly looking forward to pitting my managerial wits against one of my former players from my days at Sheffield Wednesday, John Sheridan. After being reunited with the Irishman prior to kick off and arranging to meet up for a bottle of wine after the game, I headed back to the dressing room to give my final instructions to the players.

“Right boys” I shouted, as they fell silent, “Today you have everything to lose and absolutely nothing to gain. Your expected to win convincingly and nothing else will do. Oldham will be playing without fear and will be desperate to pull off a giant killing. I want you to show them respect, but just play your normal game, match their commitment and you should have more than enough quality to get the win”.

I made three changes to the starting line up; with Giovani, Smertin and Warner making way for Kamara, Meira and debutant Almunia.

It was the biggest match of the season for Oldham and their fans responded by selling out Boundary Park and creating a really raucous atmosphere. It would be our job to silence them and after an evenly matched opening ten minutes, we finally got the breakthrough.

Kamara was upended by Sean Gregan in the penalty area and the referee had no hesitation in pointing to the spot. In front of all the Oldham supporters, waving their arms and whistling to try and put him off, Sarioglu carefully placed the ball on the spot, with his howler against Derby still fresh in the mind. However, he gained a semblance of redemption by sending the ‘keeper the wrong way and giving us the early lead.

I sat back in my chair contentedly as I waited for the flood gates to open. But Oldham were determined not to go down without a fight and just five minutes later, the stadium erupted as Craig Davies got onto a through ball by JP Kalala and rifled the ball underneath Almunia to bring the scores level.

“Absolutely shocking, who was picking him up?” I balled from the touchline. I clasped my hands over my mouth and ordered the players to up their game. I’d never been on the end of a major upset in my career and I would be damned if I was going to start at this stage.

Thankfully the players responded and with the game taking on a frenetic pace, our superior ability in attack paid dividends. Sarigolu looped the ball down the wing to Burke, who skipped past two defenders before firing an arcing ball into the box. The ball fell at the feet of Kamara, who’s fierce left footed volley was too hot for veteran ‘keeper Mark Crossley to hold. The ball bounced back out and Zarate gratefully picked up the scraps, smashing home from close range to make it 2-1.

However, Oldham refused to be swept aside and buoyed on by an impassioned home crowd continued to stand firm, as we began to turn the screw.

Half time arrived and as I gathered the players in the dressing room, I singled out the defence for a barracking, “Again, how many times? How many times are you going to switch off and cost us a goal? There two divisions below us for God’s sake and you lot are all internationals, supposedly top class players but you have had your pockets pinched again. It’s not good enough boys”.

I decided to hang fire on any substitutions for the time being and see how the second half unfolded. Just under ten minutes after the restart, the tie was settled. Kamara swung in a corner but the normally ruthless Sokratis miscued his header. With the ball heading wide, Armand Traore stuck out his foot and diverted it into the roof of the net.

He ran towards the travelling supporters, celebrating wildly - a little over-zealous I thought - but I wasn’t going to deny him his moment and stood on the touchline applauding the Frenchman’s first goal for the club.

The goal seemed to really take the wind out of Oldham’s sails and their heads began to drop. Five minutes later and another corner, this time delivered by Chris Burke was whipped across the face of the six yard box. After his earlier miss, Sokratis made up for it by powering the ball home past a hapless Mark Crossley to make it 4-1.

“That’s more like it boys” I shouted, encouraging them to keep the momentum going. With ten minutes left, I decided to give Zarate a rest and brought on Giovanni to take his place. Playing in a more advanced attacking role, the Mexican flourished and banged in two late goals to give a more resounding feel to the scoreline.

Oldham Athletic 1 - 6 Fulham

It had been a satisfactory showing and I was pleased that the defence had looked more solid in the second half, despite the Latics not offering that much going forward.

I left Dave to handle the post match debrief and joined up with John in the managers lounge to share a bottle of wine. “You gave us a bit of lesson today” he said, passing me a glass. “Well don’t let your boys get their heads down, there’s plenty of potential there John and you gave us a scare in that first half”.

Me and John chatted for a few hours and before we knew it we had worked our way through nearly four bottles of red wine. “Those bottles were more expensive than my transfer budget for the whole season” John slurred, laughing. I chuckled along with him as my head began to spin. I tried to sit up right and replied “I’ll tell you what John mate…”, I paused for a minute but then lost my train of thought.

“I’ll tell you what John mate” I tried again before being overcome with hysterics. I fell out of my seat and then onto the floor. As John tried to help me up, I said “I’ll tell you what John mate, I like you, you’re a good guy”, drunkenly patting him on his face. John placed me back in my seat and I tried to compose myself, “I like you, you’re a good guy. So I’m going to help you out”.

Trying to hold back his sniggers at seeing his former manager in such a state, he said “Go on, I’m listening”. “Well I hope you don’t mind me saying” I babbled, “But your right back is crap”. John nodded in agreement “Kelvin, Kelvin Lomax. I couldn’t agree more, but he’s the best we’ve got” he said ruefully.

“Well this is where your old gaffer is going to come riding to your rescue. You know Moritz?”. “What, Mortiz Volz?” John replied excitedly. “Yeah, I know it’s a funny name but he’s a decent player” I staggered. “Well, why don’t you take him on loan, he wont mind and I don’t really need him. I’ll get Al-Fayed to pay for the wages - we’re loaded at the moment”.

“Are you sure?” John asked, looking shocked. “Yeah, sure. I don’t need him and I can always sign someone else in his place. We are minted at the moment”, I said repeating myself. “Well, if your positive I would love to have a player of Moritz’s ability on board. Thanks a lot Jonathan mate, this is brilliant. If there’s anything I can do in return then all you have to do is ask”. John replied, beaming from ear to ear.

“Well there is one thing you could do for me if it’s not too much trouble” I said slouching back into my chair, “Just name it mate”, “Could you pass me a bucket…”

And with that, I proceeded to turn the pristine white carpet inside the managers lounge a rather fetching shade of red. Not exactly my finest hour.

[JonWo]

Chapter 28: Semi Final Drama

The following day I jolted awake before it was even light outside. “Oh great” I muttered, looking around to discover that I was still in the managers lounge at Boundary Park. However, John was nowhere to be seen, so I quietly skulked out of the stadium and flagged down a taxi on a nearby road.

“Craven Cottage, Fulham, please” I said as I entered the taxi. The driver turned around surprised and said “You must be joking, that’s a five hour drive. I’m clocking off after this fare, you’ll have to find another cab mate”. It was 4 o’clock in the morning and the roads were deserted, so I said “I’ll give you three grand, up front”. I handed the driver a wad of scrunched up twenty pound notes and watched as he counted them gleefully. “Fair enough” he said, having a complete change of heart, “This is almost a months wages for me”.

As we set off on our journey, the driver enquired “Not many people have that much money just lying about in their pockets. What are you, some big time banker or something?”. I didn’t even have the energy to lie, “No, I manage a football club”. The driver turned around to face me and I could see the cogs in his brain ticking over before he exclaimed “Jonathan Wolstenholme; well I never”.

As we got acquainted, I discovered that ‘Rodrigo’ was a die-hard Manchester United fan and for the entire course of the journey, I was forced to listen on as he told me how we had no chance of overhauling his beloved Reds and winning the Premier League title this season. “You see mate” he said, “The way I see it is there’s a few teams who have the occasional season where everything goes their way. They think they’ve got a shot at knocking us of our perch as top boys in the division, but eventually they all fall by the wayside”.

I rolled my eyes as he continued to write my team’s chances off, “You lot at Fulham have done a great job to get so close to the top, but as soon as Fergie begins to consider you a threat, he’ll just start with the mind games. And everyone knows, he is the master of the mind games”.

I smiled knowingly and chirped in, “So you don’t think I can match Fergie at mind games then?”. “Not a chance” he replied, “I know you’ve had some battles with him in the past and you may have even come out on top one or two times, but Fegie’s got it down to an art form now; just think Keegan, Houllier, Wenger, they all tried but failed to get one over on him”.

I decided to let Rodrigo have his moment and then laid out on the back seats to get some sleep, as I tried to blot out the sound of him babbling on in the background.

“Wakey, wakey, sleepy head”. I opened my eyes to discover Rodrigo standing outside of the taxi, holding the door open for me. “Here we are, Craven Cottage” he exclaimed. “Cheers mate” I replied groggily as I stumbled out of the car.

By now it was just before 9 o’clock and from the looks of the packed car park, most of the players had already arrived for training. With heavy bags under my eyes and the taste of stale vomit in my mouth, I tried to pull myself together as I headed onto the training ground.

The players were already limbering up and I briefly checked in with Dave before heading back to my office to get myself cleaned up. After about an hour I felt ready to face the world again and asked Heather to go out to the where the boys were training and ask Moritz Volz to come and see me - I wasn’t looking forward to this conversation.

With a big cheesy grin on his face, Moritz bounded into my office and I asked him to take a seat. I told him that his chances in the team would be limited this season, with Sarioglu being my first choice right back. Eager to impress, Moritz replied “That’s okay boss, I’ll bide my time, work hard and force my way back into your plans”. I tried to be as tactful as possible as I told him how I had already accepted a loan offer for him.

“I think this will be a great chance for you to get some first team football under your belt” I said, sounding half convincing. Moritz looked a little perturbed, but as he thought about the idea, he began to warm to it. “So who am I joining then? Are they in the Premier League or is it a Championship side” he asked. “Actually” I began, “It’s Oldham Athletic”.

“Are you serious?” he replied, “League One football, surely you realise that’s a bit beneath me boss”. After explaining to Moritz about my friendship with John and how I was just trying to help him out, I promised that if he had a successful stint at Oldham this year, he would be in first team contention for us next season. “You’re a quality player Moritz, but your off the pace at the moment. Someone like you will have an absolute field day in League one, come on, what do you say?”.

He groaned and was clearly reluctant but eventually came round, “Go on then, but only because it’s you boss” he said with a cheeky grin on his face. “That’s my boy, you’re a star Moritz” I shouted as he left my office to go and collect his belongings.

Well, at least that had saved me the potential embarrassment of having to phone John and tell him that I was all mouth and no trousers and that the loan deal was off. However, having just given away one of my defensive reinforcements, I would now have to add a new right back to my January shopping - I wasn’t making this any easier for myself.

During the next few days I began the arduous task of hunting down my potential transfer targets. I had made a mental shortlist of players I wanted to pursue. At the top of that list was Newcastle striker, Obafemi Martins. After protracted negotiations with the loathsome Mike Ashley, we finally agreed on an 11 million fee. Now it would be up to me to convince the Nigerian that Fulham was the right club for him.

I thought the best way for him to see the ‘real’ Fulham, was for him to come to one of our games. So I phoned Mr. Al-Fayed and asked him to lead a full scale charm offensive; wining and dining Martins, during our next match. A pivotal League Cup semi final first leg, away against Aston Villa.

Aston Villa vs. Fulham, Villa Park

Our allocation of tickets for this match sold out within minutes of going on sale, such was the anticipation and excitement surrounding the fixture. The Fulham fans hadn’t experienced anything like this in years and they were in full voice, chanting and singing hours before kick off.

The atmosphere in the ground was electric. As the players sat in the dressing room I told them to listen “Do you hear that?” I asked, referring to the cauldron of noise that was filtering through from the stands. “Now I could stand here and say a great many things, but all you need to hear is how much those fans want this victory. Go out and do yourselves and those fans proud”.

The players roared louder than I had ever heard before and it was clear that they were really up for the game. Giovani slotted back into the starting line up in place of Kamara who had failed to impress at Oldham.

As the game got underway, I spied Mr Al-Fayed and Martins sat in the directors box sipping on champagne and joking with one another. The chairman gave me the thumps up and I was happy knowing that the silver-tongued Egyptian was up there working his magic.

However, my initial optimism was quickly quashed. With only five minutes on the clock, Gareth Barry roared free on the right wing having picked up a pass from Zat Knight. I watched on in horror as Armand Traore lunged at the Englishman two footed. The Villa Park crowd were out of their seats in outrage and chants of “Off! Off! Off!” began to reign around the ground.

Referee Uriah Rennie was left with no other option and Traore was soon trudging off the pitch having received his marching orders. As he walked past me on the touchline I could have swung for him, but instead just turned away in disgust.

I had to act quickly and ordered Meira to fill in at left back. The Portuguese star quelled his attacking instincts for the good of the team and proceeded to give Gabriel Agbonlahor a really tough time on the right wing.

With the deck stacked against us and despite the game only being fifteen minutes old, we took the lead in vintage style. Giovani whipped in a rare corner for us, the ball evaded the lunge of Sokratis, but there was our own captain marvel - Fernando Meira - to volley the ball home from ten yards out. We struggled to contain our joy in the dugout and raced out onto the touchline to celebrate. “You beauty” I shouted as Meira nonchalantly celebrated by pressing his finger to his lips, enraging the Villa fans.

“Right now hold it tight boys” I shouted as I began to get a little panicky. The players responded brilliantly, but as the half progressed, Villa eventually managed to make their extra man pay.

Giovanni again whipped in a corner, but this time Laursen cleared Villa’s lines. We had committed far too many men forward and Ashley Young raced out of his own box and across the halfway line. It was now a two-on-two situation and Young played a delightful give and go with Isiah Osbourne, before chipping the ball over Meira’s head. Osbourne ran through, one on one with Almunia and coolly slotted the ball home from the angle of the penalty area.

The roof lifted off Villa Park as their delighted players celebrated. With them now firmly in the ascendancy it became a desperate scrap for us to hold out until half time - one we soon lost. Young took a quick throw-in to Agbonlahor, who delivered a cross into the box. Sokratis had been bundled over in the build up, leaving Stylian Petrov the simplest of chances to head home and make the score 2-1.

All our good work undone in three minutes of madness. Back in the dressing room I knew that it was time for me to earn my lavish wages and deliver a game changing rallying call to the team, “I know your down boys and I know your tired. But now is the time for you all to stand up and be counted, there are thousands of people out there pleading for you to overcome the odds and turn this game around. There’s a chance for each and everyone of you to go out there, etch your name in Fulham folklore, get that goal and become a hero to the fans, do us all proud boys”.

“Come on!” I urged from the touchline as the second half got underway. I watched on as Ashley Young escaped our defence, baring down on goal, I was mightily relieved when Fernando Meira clattered him and manfully accepted his yellow card.

However, with the ensuing free kick about to take place, the Portuguese defender kicked the ball away to ensure that the rest of his team-mates had enough time to get back and defend. The card-happy Uriah Rennie summoned Meira over and instantly showed him a second yellow card. Meira looked on in disbelief and protested his innocence, with the rest of his team-mates quickly crowding around the official.

I couldn’t believe it and had to be stopped from marching onto the field by Dave. As he restrained me, I screamed “You’re a f**king disgrace referee” before being pulled away by the rest of my backroom staff.

Now down to nine men, I knew there was no chance of a comeback, so I ordered the player to revert to a containing 4-3-1 formation. The Villa fans were loving every moment of it and as a distraught Meira headed off the field, cheers rang around the ground.

With twenty minutes to go, Villa continued to pile forward in numbers; Larsson and Zarate dropped back into midfield and ran their hearts out, helping us repel wave after wave of Villa pressure.

We barely managed to get the ball out of our half for the next ten minutes, but when we eventually did, David Healy pressurised Zat Knight into giving away a corner. We only sent two men forward, but as Giovanni whipped in a devilish cross, Chris Burke lunged at the ball. He connected sweetly with his unfavoured right foot and the ball nestled in the bottom right hand corner of the net.

“Yeeeesss!” I screamed clenching my fists and trying to stifle my emotion. This had turned into a real grudge match and some of our supporters couldn’t contain their joy as they stormed onto the pitch to celebrate with the players.

With nine men we had somehow managed to claw the game level and with Villa reeling, dare I say, things got even better. In the dying seconds, Burke hit a long and hopeful punt up field to David Healy. With no one to pass to, the Northern Ireland international seized the initiative and charged through the Villa defence.

He eased past Gary Cahill, before slipping the ball through the legs of Bouma, twenty five yards out and he tried his luck. The ball seemed to travel in slow motion as it evaded the despairing dive of Thomas Sorensen and dipped into the top left hand corner of the net.

“You beauty!!” I yelled, my voice now going hoarse. I couldn’t control my emotions any longer and sprinted out of the technical, down the touchline in a Mourinho-esque manner. The Villa fans were apoplectic with rage, but I didn’t care. The FA can ban me, fine me, whatever, but they will never take this moment away from me.

Aston Villa 2 - 3 Fulham

As the final whistle sounded, I was again back out on the pitch, celebrating with the players like we had just won the cup, rather than simply winning the first leg of a semi final.

I gathered the team in a huddle in the middle of the field and told them that was the greatest fight back I had ever seen in all of my career. “Hero”, I said pointing to Burke, “Hero” I said pointing to Sokratis, “Hero” I said pointing to Almunia. I went round each and every player and told them they were a hero, I then lead the chorus as the crowd serenaded the players with chants of “Wolstenholme’s Black and White Army”.

What a day and what a rush. I dare say that if the stewards hadn’t ushered us off the pitch, we would still be out there celebrating now. I now no that my players have the mental toughness and resolve for a title challenge, so bring it on!

[JonWo]

Chapter 29: An Air of Resignation

From the euphoria of the most unlikely and stirring of fight backs, to the crushing revelations that greeted me as I strode into Craven Cottage on the Monday morning.

As I walked into my office, I was startled to see Mr. Al-Fayed sat behind my desk. “Well we have been a busy boy haven’t we Mr. Wolstenholme” he said with an unnerving calmness that belied the furious expression on his face. I smiled uneasily and said “Well, you know, a managers work is never done”.

“Never a truer word spoken” he said as he reclined in my chair, placing his hands over the back of his head. “Now, your probably wandering what I’m doing in your office” he began, “Well, I arrived here a short while ago and after a few minutes I heard the phone ringing inside your office. Nothing out of the ordinary there. I thought to myself ‘Where’s Jonathan? He’s normally here by now’. But I decided to give you the benefit of the doubt, ‘He’s probably just stuck in traffic’ I told myself, I know what the roads around London are like at this time of day”.

I did not like the direction this little talk was heading, I could tell he knew something, something he wasn’t happy about, but what? He continued “So, I dashed into your office and picked up the phone. Now hold on, because this is where things begin to get a little confusing. I spoke to a lovely lady named Julie who is a nurse at a hospital in Brighton; she told me to inform Jonathan that his friend Mr. Sbragia was making a good recovery and he should be able to come home in a couple of weeks”.

‘Oh no’ I thought, my web of lies was beginning to unravel and an air of resignation swept over me as Mr. Al-Fayed added, “Now I thought that was a little strange, how many ‘Mr. Sbragia’s’ does Jonathan know? Even after that little revelation though , I thought ‘Oh, Jonathan will have a reasonable explanation for all of this’, so I went back to my office and sat waiting for your arrival”.

I stood there silently, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Mr. Al-Fayed leaned forward and continued, “So there I was in my office, pondering the explanation I might receive from you, when all of a sudden I received a new fax. Again, nothing out of the ordinary there. I plucked the sheet of paper out of the fax machine and began reading. I have to admit that I was rather perplexed that the chairman of Gamba Osaka stated he had never heard of Ricky Sbragia, much less appointed his as manager. Which does rather beg the question; what the hell is going on at my club?!”

There was nowhere left for me to run and no trumped up lie I could tell to get myself off the hook this time, the chairman had well and truly got my number. I sighed as I began right from the very beginning; starting with Hugo’s injury, the Colombians, the threats, Ricky’s disappearance, the phone calls, Mr Chervenkov and then the reappearance of Ricky. Mr Al-Fayed listened on intently, as I finished “So you can see the sort of predicament I was in”.

Al-Fayed looked at me almost disbelievingly before finally composing himself and saying, “That’s a bit far fetched, even by your standards. There really is no depths to which you wont stoop to try and save your own skin, but to sully the name of Mr. Chervenkov with these outrageous claims of being involved in your little sideshow is beneath contempt”.

“I am telling you the truth” I pleaded. “You don’t know the meaning of the words!” he stormed, thumping his fist on the desk. “Mr. Chervenkov is a respected businessman and has been a hugely generous donator to our project and you repay him with these slanderous remarks”.

He had obviously already made his mind up about me, I had told him the truth but he clearly no longer believed a word that I said, “So where do we go from here?” I asked, already knowing what his response would be. “Where do you think we go from here Jonathan? You’ve had your warnings - I given you more chances than I would any other manager, but you just keep throwing it all back in my face. No one is bigger than this club Jonathan, no one”.

I began to head towards the door, but Mr. Al-Fayed wasn’t finished yet “Jonathan you are a world class manager and the way you have transformed the club this season is nothing short of a miracle. But it is your judgement, your multitude of vices and the content of your character that let’s you down so badly”.

I stood, arms folded as Mr Al-Fayed, his voice cracking with emotion said “I can’t do this anymore, sooner or later all of this baggage you carry round with you is going to start affecting the players and I can’t, no I won’t allow it to happen. As much as it pains me to say this Jonathan, your fired”.

Mr. Al-Fayed looked at me with a tear in his eye, before finishing “I wish it didn’t have to be like this, but this is the path you have chosen, collect your belongings and then leave the property. Don’t mention anything to the players, I think it is best that they hear this from me”.

I cut a forlorn figure as I slowly made my way out of the stadium, I passed Dave in the car park as he was coming in for training, “Where you going boss?” he said, “You not joining us for training today?”. I looked at him and tried to hide my sorrow and force a smile, “I’ll catch you later Dave, best wishes mate”.

Dave stood there looking confused as I hopped into my car and drove away from the ground. For the first time in my career I had been fired and I couldn’t blame the chairman for sending me packing. However, I couldn’t help but feel that I still had unfinished business here.

[JonWo]

Chapter 30: I Predict A Riot

I returned to my house a broken man as the enormity of my firing and the mess I had brought upon myself began to set in. So this was my life from now on - these four walls - for as long as my cash lasted, at least. Football was all I had ever known and the only thing I was ever any good at.

I sat on my sofa staring at photos of my past glories; there was me and Tony Adams lifting the FA Cup, me and John Terry with the Premier League trophy and then my personal favourite, a younger and trimmer looking me with John Sheridan and the League Cup in 1991. It briefly took my mind off the whole sorry fiasco at Fulham, but the more I reminisced, the harder it became to stomach the fact that my career had ended in disgrace.

The loud ringing of my telephone broke the silence as I continue to look over the photos. I sluggishly got out of my seat and walked over to answer, “Hello”, “Hello Mr. Wolstenholme, my name is Julie and I‘m calling from Brighton General Hospital” came the reply, “I tried to contact you at work but you were unavailable, so I left a message with your boss”. Just what I needed at this moment in time, “Hi Julie, yes my boss passed on the message, thanks for that” I replied sarcastically.

“Oh that’s good” she replied, “Well then, I just thought I’d let you know that Mr. Sbragia is recuperating better than we could have hoped for. He will still be suffering from acute short term amnesia, but we are now confident he will make a full recovery. We will be releasing him in ten days time, all being well, are you still willing to accommodate him during his rehabilitation?”.

I thought for a moment, my circumstances had changed dramatically since I had promised to look after Ricky, but he needed me and we were in this together, “Yes, that all sounds fine. I’ll come and collect him in ten days. Thank you”.

I put the phone down and turned on the television. I began flicking through the channels, intentionally trying to avoid Sky Sports News, but eventually curiosity go the better of me. Just as I expected, there it was in the yellow ‘breaking news’ bar at the bottom of the screen “Jonathan Wolstenholme leaves Fulham by mutual consent”.

Well, at least I had one thing to thank Mr Al-Fayed for, he had afforded me the dignity of the token ‘left by mutual consent’ gesture, but I knew this wouldn’t be the end of it.

As the news began to send shockwaves up and down the country, the channel began broadcasting the scenes developing outside of Craven Cottage. Thousands of angry supporters began to descend on the ground demanding answers. It was heartening to know that so many people cared so deeply about me and the job I was doing at Fulham, but I knew that as soon as the full story came to light, the wave of public opinion would more than likely turn against me.

As the story developed and the news channel began to dedicate more and more air-time to it, they showed footage of near riotous scenes outside Craven Cottage, as the fans chanted “Sack the Board!” and “There’s Only One Jonathan Wolstenholme!”. With the situation becoming more fractious by the second, riot police were sent in to try and calm the crowds.

I lit a cigarette and was beginning to gain a kind of perverse satisfaction from watching the raucous crowd sing my name and abuse the chairman. Sky Sports News soon dispatched a roving reporter onto the scene to try and gauge the feelings of the fans. As he interviewed the rag-tag bunch of black and white shirt wearing die-hards, a familiar face popped up on the screen. It was my old drinking buddy, Steve.

The clearly inebriated landlord of the Red Lion slurred as he denounced the board, “Al-Fayed has a lot to answer for, Wolstenholme was the best thing that’s ever happened to this club but as always, that out of touch old fool has messed up our chances. Sack the board!” he shouted, as the fans behind him roared their approval.

The camera panned around the ground to show a sheepish looking Al-Fayed stood in a nearby window, looking out over the baying mob. As the crowd spotted him, they began pelting his window with lighters, stones, bottles and anything else they could get their hands on.

As the afternoon progressed, the situation got more and more out of hand. Al-Fayed was forced to barricade himself in his office, with the police struggling to control the ever growing mob.

I knew that there was only one person who could sort this situation out and that was me. If I charged in and addressed the crowd, maybe they would calm down and we would avoid a full scale riot, it may even sway Mr. Al-Fayed into giving me my job back.

But in these sink or swim moments when I had the chance to make a real difference, I invariable chose the former and proceeded to sink myself into the nearest bottle of whiskey.

[JonWo]

Chapter 31: The Wolstenholme Factor

It was the morning after the night before and as the dust began to settle on what the papers had labelled “The Fulham Outrages”, former players and pundits from across the board registered their condemnation at the events which had lead to twenty-five policemen being seriously injured and the Hammersmith End of Craven Cottage sustaining irreparable structural damage.

I had awoken shortly before midday with the kind of hangover you only get after downing nearly two bottles of Jack Daniels. Unshaven and unkempt as I was, there was no need for me to pull my act together today because there was no football club for me to manage, and that was a depressing realisation.

As the day progressed and my hangover subsided, I switched on the television and watched as the Fulham ground staff began their mass clean up operation. Later in the day, there was a news bulletin reporting that the FA had deemed Craven Cottage ‘unsafe’ to host Premier League fixtures, so for the foreseeable future their home matches would be played at Charlton Athletic’s home ground, The Valley.

I tried not to let it affect me too much, ‘that chapter of my life is over now’ I would tell myself, but there was still this nagging feeling in my mind that I hadn’t finished the job I had started there.

I felt sorry for the club in some ways, they had now become the pariahs of the league. No one felt any sympathy for Mr. Al-Fayed, who had chosen to remain silent over the full details of my departure. I knew that this would only heighten the outrage of the fans, but I guess he was trying to protect the integrity of his club by not divulging the full horror of what had occurred during my tenure.

I could only guess at what Dave and the boys must have been thinking as the media circus continued to gather pace. I hadn’t even given them an explanation as to why I had left, no, correction: I wasn’t allowed to give them an explanation, God knows I wanted to.

Fulham vs. Middlesbrough, The Valley

With a threadbare squad and an even smaller backroom staff, it was the luckless Dave who had been charged with bringing a semblance of normality back to the club as they prepared to take on fourth placed Middlesbrough.

I didn’t have the gall to attend the match, so instead made camp inside the Red Lion for the day, surrounded by Steve and his mates. I told them not to ask any questions, so that they would hear no lies, “I’m just one of the boys today” I proclaimed, grabbing my first pint from the bar.

“I’ve heard that after the riots on Monday, Martins has rejected the contract we’ve offered him”, Steve said, “I can’t exactly say that I blame him” I replied, “The clubs in a mess from top to bottom”.

“Oh Dave” I said ruefully as the squad was announced, what a mess I had left for him. With Traore and Meira banned and Moritz on loan at Oldham, he was forced to play Adrian Leijer at left back. This was second versus fourth in the division and a really pivotal match, but as the game unfolded, it was clear that the events of the past few days had affected the players.

It was painful to watch my team, once so fluent and brimming with confidence, annihilated by Boro in the first half. “Why’s he playing Burke in the holding role” Steve gasped. I couldn’t agree more, but I didn’t blame Dave; he wasn’t a manager, he wasn’t even really a number two, he was a goalkeeping coach who had been thrust into the limelight by these most unfortunate of circumstances.

Still, a Mido hat trick and a penalty from Tuncay, combined with the sending off of Norambuena had seen Gareth Southgate’s men go in 4-0 up at half time.

The pub was all but empty before the second half had even kicked off, but for me and Steve sat perched on our stools nearest to the widescreen television. A few people returned swiftly, as David Healy pulled one back within seconds of the restart. However, Boro well and truly put the game to bed with five minutes to go, with Gary O’Neil grabbing their fifth to make the final score 5-1 to the visitors.

Fulham 1 - 5 Middlesbrough

I couldn’t hide my disappointment at the final whistle, as Steve quickly changed channels to VH1. That was my team out there, the same team that had showed such gallantry in fighting back against Villa just over a week ago, crumbling in front of my very eyes.

For the eight-thousand or so supporters who had bothered to turn up at The Valley, this result proved too much and as soon as the game had finished, they raced over to Craven Cottage to stage another demonstration against the board.

Conspicuous by his absence at the game, Al-Fayed was still nowhere to be found the following morning, as the pundits began to dissect the woeful performance shown by the team. However, they all came to one conclusion and as Steve Claridge put it, Fulham had lost the ‘Wolstenholme Factor’.

[JonWo]

Chapter 32: Stand Up and Be Counted

As if the ‘Fulham Outrages’ hadn’t been bad enough, the following days headlines rocked the entire nation to it’s core. Three policemen had been killed as the demonstrations outside of Craven Cottage became more hostile. The fans anger towards the chairman and his board was misplaced and unfortunately three innocent men had lost their lives.

It was a very sobering thought for me personally, I kept telling myself that I had the ability to stop all of this madness at anytime, but the reality was that I just too proud to come out and speak in front of a grieving nation about my failings as both a manager and a person.

In the following days I tried to disassociate myself from the world of football, as I began preparing my house for the impending arrival of Ricky. I fitted an emergency alarm in the bathroom, fixed up the guest bedroom and put plastic covers over all of the furniture. It might have been a bit much, but I had no experience of looking after someone else; I had never had a wife and had no children that I knew of.

I had managed to stay away from the allure of the bottle for the entire week and with Ricky scheduled to arrive the following day, I made a rare excursion out of my house to pick up the Sunday newspaper. Not wishing to be recognised, I threw on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a burberry cap before making my way to the local newsagents.

‘Phew’ I thought as I left the corner shop clutching a copy of the News of the World. Nobody had recognised me and I quickly scurried back to my house for a bit of rest and relaxation.

As I lounged about on my bed, I turned to the back page of the newspaper and was confronted by the headline ‘Fulham: A Scourge on British Football’. As I read through the full article on the inside page, I was mortified to discover in explicit detail, how the three policemen had lost their lives. A group of fans had cornered them near one of the ticket offices as they tried to restore order, they had then kicked the officers to the floor, before attempting to use them as battering rams to break down the locked gates at Craven Cottage.

Each officer had died of severe brain damage. My heart was still telling me to be a man and put a holt to these tragedies once and for all, but my mind was weak and wanted no part of it.

I let apathy get the better of me and quickly began turning the pages until I stumbled upon the match report from Fulham’s most recent game. Clinging to second place after their battering at ‘home’ to Middlesbrough, life hadn’t got any easier for Dave and the boys with a trip to Old Trafford to take on the might of Sir. Alex’s Manchester United.

Unable to pick the suspended Norambuena, reporter Andy Dunn had made light of the fact that Dave had only been able to name four substitutes on his bench. Still, a lot of the match report focused on the disrespect shown by the travelling supporters during the minutes silence prior to the game, in honour of the three ‘murdered’ policemen.

I read “These so called fans who have brought shame not only on their club, not only on their country, but the entire human race, deserve hanging from the gallows. They’re malicious and vile chanting during the minutes silence for the three fallen officers was nothing short of an outrage and Sir. Alex’s comments in the post match press conference that he wished he had ordered his players off the field there and then speaks volumes…”

“…Unfortunately, he stopped short on delivering on his promise, but there will not be a fan in the country feeling any sympathy for Mohamed Al-Fayed, Dave Beasent, or who ever is running this sorry club at the moment after they received a resounding beating from the Red Devils. Fulham were clueless, badly organised and down right pitiful at times, as they eventually succumbed 6-0 to United. A hat trick from Man of the Match Wayne Rooney, as well as strikes from Tevez, Ferdinand and Ribery all but ensured that the Premier League title will be remaining at Old Trafford and plunged the London club further into turmoil”.

It was a damning verdict on the team and the club as a whole from the reporter, but as I watched the highlights of the goals on the news later that afternoon, I couldn’t help but agree with him.

To my eternal sadness, images of the fans again venting their anger outside of Craven Cottage were broadcast to the entire nation. I knew that there would be ramifications this time around; people had again been hurt in the ensuing melees and I was sure that the Football Association would take action.

I watched on in horror as I saw pictures of so called Fulham fans hurtling bricks at the stadium which was once such a joyous and vibrant place to be around. In the space of just over two weeks following my departure, the club had imploded.

I had seen enough, this senseless destruction and violence had gone too far, ‘Not in my name’ I shouted as I rose off my sofa with a new found fire in my belly. This was my club, my mess and my job to turn things around.

I marched over to my phone and called Mr. Al-Fayed. After almost thirty seconds of ringing he eventually picked up and in a hesitant voice answered “Hello, who is this, what do you want?”. More determined than ever, I replied “Mohammed, this is Jonathan. I’m not going to let all of this violence, death and senseless destruction go off on my watch. You need someone strong who is going to stand up and be counted, someone who is going to sort out this mess. And that someone is me Mohammed, I’m coming back and I’m not going to take no for an answer; Fulham needs me as much as I need Fulham, I’ll see you on Monday”.

As I began to place the phone back down on the receiver, I heard mumbled cries of “Thank you… thank you Jonathan”. I was back.

[JonWo]

Chapter 33: A New Mandate (Part One)

I was a man on a mission as I drove through central London on my way to our makeshift training ground at The Valley. It was my first day back at Fulham following all the acrimony and trouble that had ensued following my initial sacking and I would be lying if I said that I wasn‘t apprehensive about how I would be received.

I briefly stopped outside Craven Cottage to see for myself the full extent of the damage that had been caused by the riots. However, I couldn’t bring myself to stay for long. It was a devastating scene; windows had been smashed, rubble lay everywhere and the Hammersmith End looked close to collapse. The police had cordoned off the ground and armed officers stood guarding the entrances.

As I approached the Valley I was almost blinded as thousands of camera bulbs began flashing and every journalist, news reporter and cameraman in England attempted to accost me. I ignored them as the media circus was stopped from following me into The Valley car park by a ring of security that was patrolling the perimeter of the stadium.

I forced open the door of my car and tried to ignore the jeers and abuse coming from the journalists. “You have blood on your hands Wolstenholme” one of them spat, as I made my way into the ground.

“Here he is, the boss is back” I heard as I walked through the entrance with my head bowed. I looked up and saw Mr. Chervenkov standing there with a huge smile on his face. “What are you doing here?” I hissed, not forgetting how he had left Ricky for dead a few weeks ago. “Say hello to the new majority shareholder of Fulham Football Club” he replied, struggling to contain his delight.

“What, you?” I said shocked, “Where’s Mr. Al-Fayed? He wouldn’t have sold up, he loves this club, I only spoke to him last night”. Mr. Chervenkov placed his arm around my shoulder and lead me to a nearby office. “Let me tell you something about Mr. Al-Fayed” he began, “He’s a smart businessman who knows when to cut his losses. He knows people around here hate him and he knows that the fans would never accept him back. So he phoned me this morning and practically begged me to take the club off his hands”.

Something about what I was hearing didn’t sit right with me, the longer I had known Mr. Chervenkov, the more I had become weary of him and his motives. “Let’s talk Mr. Wolstenholme” he said, gesturing for me to take a seat as Dmitri appeared from the corridor and closed the door firmly behind him.

Mr. Chervenkov sat staring me dead in the eye before beginning, “This club is a shambles, the most hated club on the planet at the moment; from London to Moscow, everybody despises us. But today is the day we begin to turn things around. Did you see the guards around the stadium as you entered Mr. Wolstenholme?”.

I nodded, “They are former members of a Russian paramilitary group and from now on, they will be present at all of our home games and will root out the hooligans who desecrated Craven Cottage”. “That will never work” I replied, “The FA won’t allow you to have your own little militia patrolling at our games, this is the twenty-first century, not war-time Russia”.

Mr Chervenkov smiled smugly and replied “I have already spoken to your Chief Executive Richard Scudamore and he has agreed that in lieu of these most exceptional of circumstances, that a strong peace-keeping force is necessary to restore order”. How on Earth had he talked the Chief Executive into agreeing to that? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, so much for us being a family friendly club.

“Furthermore, I spoke at length with Mr. Scudamore about the punishment we will be receiving for the violence that has occurred during the last few weeks and he indicated that he was considering a points deduction”. “Well, there ends our hopes of winning the title” I said, relieved that that particular pressure was finally off my shoulders. “Not quite” he replied, “After explaining how that would unfairly penalise the players, he eventually agreed that a fine might be more appropriate”.

“He would never agree to that, what kind of message does that send out?” I replied, Mr. Chervenkov looked at Dmitri and they began sniggering at each other. “Am I missing something here?” I shouted, “What’s so funny?”, “Calm down Mr. Wolstenholme” he replied, “Your always so tense, let’s just say, that Mr. Scudamore received a very generous ‘donation’ that lead to him having a sudden change of heart”.

So they had bribed him - terrific - after everything that had gone on before; the deception, corruption and back biting, this new chapter in Fulham’s history was again beginning on a foundation of lies.

Mr. Chervenkov then pulled a piece of paper out of his desk drawer and began reading off of it. “Now, to the on-field side of things. Firstly, I want this ‘Dave Beasent’ fired, he is a terrible manager. Played two games, lost two games; 5-1, 6-0”. “No, no, no” I interrupted, “If Dave goes I go, he’s my assistant, he’s a good coach and I won’t even entertain letting him go”.

Chervenkov looked frustrated, “But he is clearly not up to the job, the results don’t lie”. “Like I said, if he goes, I go”, Dmitri leant over and whispered something in Chervenkov’s ear, he then continued, “Fine Mr. Wolstenholme, he can stay. But he will not be staying as your assistant manager, he can go back to being the goalkeeping coach”.

“Then who the hell is going to be my assistant, I’ve already had three this season already”. Mr. Chervenkov looked at Dmitri and winked, before summoning him over, “My good friend Dmitri will be your new second hand man”. He must have been joking, I didn’t want that lumbering behemoth anywhere near my side, “With the greatest of respect, what exactly qualifies Dmitri to be my assistant?”

“Are you kidding?” Mr. Chervenkov asked, “Dmitri was once one of the hottest properties in Russian football. He was the star striker at Shinnik Yaroslavl and would have become one of the best players in the world, but for a devastating knee injury that ended his career”. Both Mr. Chervenkov and Dmitri bowed there heads, before Dmitri sombrely added, “The doctors said I would never play football again”.

Things were getting more and more bizarre by the moment, but Chervenkov was the one who called the shots now and despite being dubious about Dmitri’s credentials, I had no choice but to accept the new chairman’s decision.

“I think you will find that beneath his brutal outer-shell, that Dmitri here possesses quite the astute football brain”. I looked Dmitri up and down and then rolled my eyes, “We’ll see”, I said, helpless. “Is that it then? No more bombshell announcements, can I finally get back to managing my team?”.

“Not quite”, Chervenkov said, “But I think you will like this last one” he said, as that same unnerving smile swept across his face. He pulled a phone out of his pocket and spoke into the receiver “Send them in”. The door swung open and two men walked in, I was sure I had seen them before but could quite place them.

“Mr. Wolstenholme, say hello to the two newest members of Fulham Football Club, Darijo Srna and Walter Pandiani. This was a surprise, I had almost given up on signing anybody new this transfer window and these two players hadn’t exactly been on my radar, but nonetheless, I knew enough about them to realise they were decent players.

“Nice to meet you lads” I said, standing up to shake their hands. “Consider this a welcome back present”, Mr Chervenkov added, “Two players who will help lead Fulham to the Premier League title”.

I quickly tried to rebuke Mr. Chervenkov’s lofty claims, but he interrupted “Now Jonathan, before you go back and get reacquainted with the squad, I’m going to need you to go and speak to the media. I’ve organised a press conference for 3pm and I think it’s time we gave them a few answers”. I thought about if for a moment, but then realised, “I can’t, I’ve got to go and pick Ricky up from the hospital”.

Mr. Chervenkov hastily added “Don’t worry about Ricky, I will send someone down to pick him up and drive him to your house, you just worry about how you are going to deal with the media”. Mr. Chervenkov rose out of his chair and his voice became more stern as he said “You may have to be a little economical with the truth, but I want you to set the story straight. After all, both me and you know that Mr. Al-Fayed was the one who caused all of these problems, don’t we?”.

The new chairman then winked and left the office, closely followed by Dmitri - ‘welcome back to the Fulham mad-house’ I sighed.

[JonWo]

Chapter 33: A New Mandate (Part Two)

With Chervenkov and Dmitri watching on intently, just out of view of the baying media, I took my seat at the press conference as a stony silence fell over the room. Gone was the applause that had greeted my first unveiling as manager, the press were appalled by the events that had transpired at my club recently and I knew that I was about to receive a harsh grilling.

I really wasn’t looking forward to this and took a sip of water to clear my throat, before beginning:

Jonathan Wolstenholme: Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. As I am sure you are already aware, I have been reinstated as the manager of Fulham. It has been an extremely difficult period for the club on and off the pitch recently and first and foremost, I would like to pass on the clubs sincerest condolences to those policemen who lost their lives during the riots. The club has a zero-tolerance policy regarding violence from our fans and I can assure you that we have already begun tracing the culprits who will be swiftly dealt with and their names past on to the police.

I would now like to open up the floor to those of you who have questions.

Martin Lipton, Daily Mirror: Where to begin? There have been so many disgraceful stories and rumours coming out of Fulham recently, that there isn’t even enough time to list them all. I guess, from the fans perspective, they would like to know why you left the club in the first place?

Jonathan Wolstenholme: It was with a heavy heart that I left Fulham. The team were doing fantastically in the league and everything was going well on the pitch. However, off the field, the relationship between myself and former chairman Mr. Al-Fayed was becoming particularly fraught. We both had different ideas about the direction the club was heading in and in the end it was decided that the best option was for me to part company with the club.

Martin Lipton, Daily Mirror: That doesn’t really answer the question though, does it Mr. Wolstenholme? I think that the fans who felt so strongly about your departure that they rioted three times in the space of a week - resulting in the deaths of three innocent men - deserve a better explanation than that.

Jonathan Wolstenholme: As I have already stated, there was a complete breakdown in relations between myself and the chairman at that time. Whilst the club were performing, Mr. Al-Fayed felt that it was time for a change and wanted to bring in a new manager who would help him realise his vision for the club.

As I finished speaking, the huddled masses of the worlds media began heckling and jeering me. One lady - who was quickly removed by Mr. Chervenkov’s security team - shouted that I was a fraud and a disgrace to English football.

As the jeering subsided, I composed myself and continued.

Jonathan Wolstenholme: Right, now moving on swiftly…

Brian Woolnough, Daily Star: After witnessing your fans murder three innocent men and having Craven Cottage all but condemned, why on Earth did you decide to come back to the club?

Jonathan Wolstenholme: I came back to the club because the players, the fans and the new board needed me. The situation was in danger of becoming even more volatile and I couldn’t stand by and watch on as more innocent people got hurt. I would like to send a clear message to all of those so called Fulham fans who took part in the riots, that I do not support your actions and neither does anyone at the club. These were reprehensible acts and ones that I can assure you will not go unpunished.

Steven Howard, The Sun: It’s all very well playing the knight in shining armour now Mr. Wolstenholme, but why weren’t you there when the ‘Outrages’ began and why did it take you so long to speak out against these thugs?

Jonathan Wolstenholme: The simple answer is that I never expected for things to go as far as they did…

The press room erupted with the sound of boos as I began to speak. I felt like a lamb who had been thrown to the lions, but I had to remain strong and try and claw back a shred of respectability for the club.

Jonathan Wolstenholme: … I had left the club and assumed that would have been the end of it. Whilst I appreciated the fans passion, I feel that they went about it in entirely the wrong way.

Oh dear, I could have expressed that a little better. An almost disbelieving hush fell over the room, as pictures were taken and I could already sense that the journalists were writing my managerial obituary.

Paul Hayward, Daily Mail: I think you could say that that is the understatement of the century. Your supporters murdered three policemen; left three wives without a husband, left countless children without fathers and ripped the heart out of three families. I don’t have a question for you Mr. Wolstenholme, I just want you to know that you will have the blood of these three brave men on your hands for the rest of your life.

The reporter attempted to spit in my direction, but was again quickly subdued by Mr. Chervenkov’s security team.

Simon Barnes, The Times: I can’t help but notice that you are trying to place the blame for this whole debacle at the feet of your former chairman Mr. Al-Fayed. As a man who was previously one of the most popular figures in Fulham’s history, I find it hard to believe that he was solely to blame for all of the clubs troubles.

Jonathan Wolstenholme: There are quite a few people who will have to shoulder the blame for the state that the club finds itself in at the moment. However, Mr. Al-Fayed was perhaps more culpable than most. He wanted success and he wasn’t prepared to wait, despite explaining to him that we were not going to transform the club overnight, his insistence that the team achieve Champions League qualification this season was one of the main reasons for our many disagreements.

Simon Barnes, The Times: Again, I am not entirely sure that all of this rings true. Still, Mr. Al-Fayed is not here to defend himself so I can see why he would be an easy target for you.

I tried to rise above his comments, it was going to take a lot more than that to bait me into a slanging match.

Jonathan Wolstenholme: Are there anymore questions?

I looked out amongst the journalists waiting for the next question, but then someone stood up who I had never seen before.

Andrew McKirdy, The Japan Times: Hello Mr. Wolstenholme. There have been numerous rumours from reliable sources in Japan that your former assistant manager, Ricky Sbragia, has not in fact joined Gamba Osaka. As someone who considers himself to be on the pulse of everything that happens in the J-League, I am inclined to agree and have neither seen nor heard from him since you announced that he had joined the club.

I shifted nervously in my chair and took another sip of water. I had no idea how I was supposed to respond and was shocked that the journalist had even found out about the story. I glanced over towards Mr. Chervenkov for some guidance, but he just stood there shrugging his shoulders. I had nowhere else to turn and just said the first thing that came to mind.

Jonathan Wolstenholme: Yes, thank you Andrew. I’m glad you raised this point and it was something I wished to clarify. As I have already said, I spoke to Ricky a few weeks back and he told me he was joining Gamba Osaka. However, I don’t know if it was a bad phone connection or just my own poor hearing, but what he actually said was that he was ‘joining the Gamba Osaka fans’ as he watched them play a match against Kashima Antlers.

I hasten to add that he was none to pleased with me for the comments I made, but I am now happy to set the record straight.

I saw Mr. Chervenkov furiously signalling for me to finish the press conference. As the next journalist began to stand up, he took it upon himself to intervene.

Mr. Chervenkov: I am sorry ladies and gentlemen but that is all the time we have for now. I would like to thank you for attending today, but Mr. Wolstenholme has a prior engagement that he must attend.

With that, he practically dragged me off the stage as the outraged media began heckling once again. I managed to escape quickly before they started throwing their coffee cups and microphones in my direction. It had been a disastrous interview and had done nothing to improve the clubs image.

However, I was glad to finally get a few things off my chest and into the open. My comments had been tinged with a hint of the truth and I hoped it would placate the fans and the players for now. Still, there was no rest for the wicked; the following day I was due to take my first training session with Dmitri and the squad, but before that I had to get home and check on Ricky.

[JonWo]

Chapter 34: Hello Again

After the nightmare of the press conference, things had not got any better. I returned home to find Ricky sat in the living room and whilst his body was able, his mind still seemed to be haunted by the experience he had gone through.

I was pleased that he at least recognised me, but during the night he would constantly wake up screaming, as he relived the horror of his kidnapping. I was continuously running in and out of his room during the night, trying to soothe and reassure him that he was safe now. However, I was already beginning to feel like I was in over my head, it was like having a child in the house and as much as I cared for Ricky, I had enough on my plate to contend with.

I showed him around the kitchen and then perched him in front of the television as I got ready for training the following morning. This was a massive day for me; not only was it my first day back with the boys, but we also had the return leg of our League Cup semi final against Aston Villa this evening.

I arrived at the Valley, made my way into the stadium but suddenly stopped outside the changing room doors, I felt pensive and wandered how the players would react to me. Would they still want me? Would they still respect me and more importantly, would they still be willing to fight for me?

As I tentatively began to open the door, Dmitri appeared and said good morning. ‘It’s now or never’ I thought to myself, as I swung the door open. “Ayyy!” the players cheered as I walked in, “The boss is back” Fernando Meira proclaimed as the entire dressing room jumped out of their seats and began to clamber around me.

I was overjoyed that they had accepted me back into the group, but there was still a few things that I needed to clear up. “First of all boys, it feels great to be back” I said to rapturous applause. “I’m sure you all saw the press conference yesterday and I can’t apologise enough for keeping you out of the loop, but you have to understand that I did what I did for the right reasons”.

“Don’t worry boss” Meira chimed in, “After everything that’s happened in the last few weeks, we’re just glad to have you back. Let’s let bygones be bygones”. Dave suddenly appeared out of the bathrooms and raced over to embrace me, “It’s been a nightmare boss, the fans have been on my back, the press, the board, everyone, I’m just glad that your back”.

I stood awkwardly as the players suddenly glanced round and caught sight of Dmitri, “Who’s the new guy?” Dave asked, “I hope he’s a centre back, we could really do with one of those right now”. As I began to explain, Dmitri interrupted and in his droning Russian accent began “My name is Dmitri Kherzakov and I will be your new assistant manager, I look forward to working with you all”.

The players sat in bemused silence as I pulled Dave to one side, “I’m sorry Dave mate, I had no say in it. It’s Chervenkov, he’s trying to throw his weight around and insisted that I took this new guy on”. “Don’t worry” Dave replied, sounding slightly disheartened “I’m a goalkeeping coach, it’s time I got back to what I do best”.

As I stepped back into the dressing room, I saw Dmitri looming over the players “Right then boys” he said, “I want to see you out there on that pitch in two minutes sharp, big game tonight!”

Aston Villa vs. Fulham, Villa Park

Dmitri had given the players a real working over in training and they looked exhausted as I tried to rally them during the pre-match team talk. “Forget everything that has gone on recently and just focus your minds on the next ninety minutes. Your within touching distance of Wembley here boys and what a way that would be to respond to all of the negative press we have received lately”.

“Lets be having you” Dmitri balled in his thick Russian accent. The players clearly hadn’t taken to him, but eventually they responded in kind and strode out onto the pitch to a hostile reception from the Villa fans, who hadn’t forgotten our over the top celebrations after winning the first leg.

Darijo Srna made his debut in place of the woeful Leijer, whilst Marco Streller also returned from injury to take the place of David Healy. However, due to international laws, Pandiani was unable to take part in the fixture as his work permit hadn‘t arrived in time. Nonetheless, he had declined Mr. Chervenkov’s invitation to join him in the director’s box and instead, sat with his new team-mates on the substitutes bench.

As the game got underway, chants of ‘Murderers’ rang around the stadium, as the Villa fans vented their disgust at the thuggish elements in our own crowd. “I can’t say I blame” I said, ignoring Dmitri and directing my comments towards Dave.

The Russian stuck out like a sore-thumb in our dugout as he refused to take his seat, preferring to patrol the touchline area, with his arms firmly folded. “Come on you Cottagers” I yelled as the first half got off to a slow start. The players were still clearly suffering a hangover from their last two matches and were struggling to string two passes together.

Despite being roared on by an impassioned crowd, Villa were looking no better. After a scrappy opening half hour, the ground fell silent as we took a surprise lead. Srna drilled a precision pass up the left wing to Giovani, the Mexican - lively as ever - jinked past Wilfred Bouma and drove towards the touchline. His neatly executed cross fell into the path of Zarate, however, his shot was brilliantly blocked by Sorensen. With the ball bobbling about in the area, Streller swivelled his body before firing home.

I sprang out of my seat with my arms raised, but Dmitri remained motionless on the sidelines. “It’s about time” he muttered, as Streller was mobbed by his team-mates.

However, our lead proved short lived. Just two minutes later, Srna had to block a goal-bound effort from Ashley Young, which deflected our for a corner. Young swung the ball into the danger area and Marlon Harewood out leapt Meira, to direct his header into the bottom right hand corner of the net.

This brought the home crowd back to life and they began baiting our supporters again. “You’ll Never Kill the Villa” they repeated over and over.

I could sense the tension was about to boil over in the stands, as our fans began hurling missiles towards the Villa end. The situation only intensified shortly before half time, when Mauro Zarate was recklessly mowed down by Gareth Barry. As Zarate hobbled off the field, referee Darren Cann saw fit to only reprimand the Villa captain with a telling off.

Cann blew the half time whistle shortly after and it was greeted by a chorus of boos from our supporters. However, we were still leading the tie 4-3 on aggregate and as the players returned to the dressing rooms and I was about to deliver my speech, Dmitri intervened “Rubbish! You played like headless chickens in that half. We should be beating this lot easily…”.

What did he think he was playing at, I pushed in front of him and began my own team talk “Keep it up boys. I’m seeing a big improvement on those last two matches, but I need you all to dig deep, ignore the fans and let’s give it one last big push to earn our place at Wembley”.

As the players began to file out for the second half, I clocked Dmitri glaring at me, “Don’t forget who is the boss around here, boy” I said, furious that he had attempted to hijack my team talk.

I brought on David Healy for Zarate, who had failed to shrug off the injury he had sustained from Gareth Barry’s challenge. We escaped the opening fifteen minutes of the second half without alarm, but I could see that Meira was tiring, so brought Stefanovic on to take his place shortly after the hour mark.

“Come on boys” I willed, “Keep it tight”. However, just twenty minutes from time, Ashley Young whipped in a fierce corner that was met perfectly by the head of Zat Knight. The home fans erupted into a sea of pandemonium as his powerful header alluded the grasp of Almunia and meant that they were now ahead by virtue of the away goals rule.

What to do, what to do, I was beginning to panic. With the new chairman looking on, I glanced over to my bench to see how I could change things around. However, with no attacking options left, I screamed for the players to go all out attack. “We’ve got nothing left to lose” I said to Dave, as I gazed across all the glum faces in the dugout.

As the clock ticked down and we headed deep into injury time, it seemed that all hope was lost. The Villa fans were now in full voice and no doubt already planning their trips to Wembley. However, with just seconds remaining, Zat Knight bizarrely smashed the ball behind for a corner, whilst he was under no real pressure from our attackers.

I waved the players forward “Everyone pile in” I shouted, “Almunia get in!”. With all eleven members of the team hovering in and around the Villa penalty area, I just hoped that Giovani would deliver a good ball.

The ground fell silent as the Mexican arced in a looping cross, my entire backroom staff were out of their seats, with their hands clasped around their mouths. Sokratis got above John Carew and directed his header goal-wards, it seemed to travel for an age. The header looked goal bound, but my heart sank when it came crashing off of the post. However, the ball rebounded back into play and then the most unlikeliest of hero’s walloped the ball home, sending the small section of travelling supporters into a frenzy.

Even Dmitri couldn’t hide his emotion, “Yeeeesss” he squealed with his arms aloft. Almunia had done it, in the dying seconds of the match and with the last kick of the game, the Spanish goalkeeper had just scored the goal that would ensure our passage to the League Cup final.

Aston Villa 2 - 2 Fulham (Fulham win 5-4 on aggregate)

What a victory, we had done it at the death.. again. But I was still aware that we weren’t everyone’s favourite club at the moment, so instead of celebrating and whipping our fans up into even more of a frenzy, I ushered the players off the pitch.

As we congregated in the dressing room and I congratulated the boys, they’re attention quickly turned to Dmitri. “Where did all that come from mate?” Chris Burke asked, the big Russian blushed, before leading the players in a chant of “Wem-ber-ley, Wem-ber-ley!”

After everything, it was great to finally feel that rush of adrenaline again. Fair play to Martin O’Neill’s Aston Villa, they gave us the game of our lives, but this was just what our club needed at the moment, something positive to focus on.

[JonWo]

Chapter 35: FA Cup Headache

I had arrived home in the small hours of Wednesday morning, still on a high but exhausted after an emotionally draining day. I briefly checked in on Ricky, only to find him asleep in the same chair where I had left him that morning. I placed a blanket over his shoulders but didn’t have the strength to move him and shortly afterwards, retired to my bed for the night.

I was awoken the following day by the smell of bacon wafting up the stairs. I threw some clothes on and made my way down to the kitchen where I saw Ricky hovering over the stove. “Morning boss” he said, “Big day today, were going to need a hearty breakfast to keep our strength up”.

I was pleasantly surprised to see Ricky acting a bit more like his normal self again and took my seat at the table as he brought over two full-English breakfasts. “Right” he said, rubbing his hands together, “Let’s talk tactics; I think we need to get the wide players to start putting in a few more crosses, I mean, we can‘t expect Hugo to score if he‘s not getting the service”.

I paused for a minute whilst I finished eating, “What do you mean mate?”, “You know, you saw him against Pompey. He looked off the pace mate, but I think he’s got the ability to be a top player for us, he just needs some better service from the midfield”. I dropped my fork as I realised that Ricky couldn’t remember what had happened to Hugo three months ago. I knew the nurse had told me that he would be suffering from acute amnesia, but it seemed like he couldn’t remember anything that had happened since his attack.

I tried to jog his memory, “Hugo’s injured mate, he’s in the hospital”. “Oh” he said, looking confused, “Yeah…yeah… I knew that, I was just testing you, nearly got you though” he said, laughing uneasily. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy, he was clearly still disorientated and not sure in his own mind exactly why he was here.

I patted him on the arm before standing up, “Right mate, I’m off to training. Take care of yourself and don’t forget if you have any problems, you can ring me on my mobile. I’ll see you later”. As I began heading for the door, Ricky came bounding after me, “Wait for me boss, let me just grab my coat and we can drive to training together, can’t wait to see the boys again”.

Oh no, he still thought that he worked for the club. I sat him down and tried to be as tactful as I could as I explained how I now had a new assistant manager. “His names Dmitri” I began, “He’s not a patch on you mate, don’t worry about that. The doctor says you’ve got to take it easy for a few months though and get your strength back. However, once you’ve recovered, there will always be a place for you at Fulham as long as I am in charge”.

I left a bemused looking Ricky to his own thoughts as I made my way to the training ground. Another one of Mr. Chervenkov’s new security measures meant that all club employees now had to present their ID cards before entering the stadium. I showed mine to the guard before being allowed into the car park and then made my way over to the pitch.

“Morning boys, how are we all doing today?” I asked as I approached the surprisingly glum looking players. “Not too good boss” Sokratis said, “Somebody broke into my house last night while we were in Birmingham and they’ve absolutely ransacked the place”. “Same thing happened to me” Chris Burke added, “And me” said Giovani.

I was shocked, “I’m so sorry boys, have you called the police?” I asked. “No, Mr. Chervenkov said he would sort it out for us, he’s sending some extra security over to keep a watch over our houses” Burke said. “Well that’s something at least” I tried to reassure, “Yeah I suppose, boss. Strange thing was though, whoever has broken in doesn’t seem to have stolen anything from any of us, they’ve just trashed the place. It’s the same for Sokratis and Giovani”.

I gave the boys an extra half hour to collect themselves before training began. I sent Almunia and Warner over to work with Dave, Dmitri insisted on taking the strikers for some shooting practice, which left me with the defenders and midfielders. We did a bit of cardio before practicing some set pieces and as the week progressed the players looked to be getting back into the swing of things.

Preston vs. Fulham, Deepdale

This was a fixture I could have really done without at the moment. We made the long journey up North to take on Championship leaders Preston in the fourth round of the FA Cup. Shortly before we boarded the coach, the team physio dashed over to me and delivered the news that Zarate would be out of action for the next month with a fractured collarbone.

Just what I needed, I had intended to field a weakened side for this fixture, but with the squad already down to the barebones, I was lucky that I could field a team at all. The good news was that Traore returned from suspension and Pandiani also made his debut for the club in place of the injured Zarate.

I agreed with most pundits when they said that the FA Cup had lost some of it’s magic in recent years, but those sentiments seemed to be lost on the home fans who were creating a cracking atmosphere. “It’s going to be all about who wants it more today boys” I said in the dressing room, “You no they’re going to be up for this one, just make sure you match them physically because they’re bound to be in your faces right from the off”.

After a hard fought opening fifteen minutes of few real chances, the game sprang to life. Matt Jansen carved an opening for himself on the edge of our area, but his shot was expertly saved by Almunia. The Spaniard quickly despatched the ball up field to Healy. With the Preston defence retreating he lofted the ball to Pandiani. Pandiani drove through the heart of the defence and from just inside the Preston area calmly stoked the ball into the bottom right hand corner.

It had taken the Uruguayan just fifteen minutes to open his account for us and I was mightily impressed with the composure he had shown in taking the goal. This seemed to give us a fresh impetus and Preston were beginning to struggle; particularly with the pace of Giovani and Chris Burke. Five minutes later, Burke zipped past two challenge before cutting the ball back to the edge of the box. Healy charged in and fired a powerful shot that eluded the grasp of Andy Lonergan and made it 2-0.

I stood on the touchline beside Dmitri showing little emotion, but I was delighted with the start we had made. The players sat back on their lead for the rest of the half and seemed happy to just pass the ball about and let Preston chase them. I was glad to seem them playing such a smart game and trying to conserve their energy for the more important fixtures ahead.

The half time whistle was greeted with muted boos from the home fans who were clearly disheartened with the way their team were being outplayed. “Excellent boys, just keep it going” I said at the break, I felt like we had already done enough to win the match, so opted to make a triple substitution, with Demspey, Streller and Srna coming on for Meira, Burke and Larsson.

Pandiani continued to lead the attack with great assurance and was beginning to look like an excellent signing for the club. Preston seemed to lack the skill or guile to unlock our defence and the game was becoming a little lacklustre.

The Preston supporters had clearly thrown in the towel and as they streamed for the exits, David Healy compounded their woes by knocking in his second goal of the game, latching onto a through ball from Man of the Match Pandiani, to make the score 3-0

Preston 0 - 3 Fulham

It had been a great day at the office, the players had negotiated a potentially tricky fixture with great ease and professionalism. I was hugely impressed with Pandiani, despite having him thrust on me by the new chairman, he is already beginning to look like quite the find.

However, the atmosphere in the dressing room was slightly subdued after the game. No doubt that certain players minds were elsewhere and I too couldn’t help but worry about Ricky.

Nonetheless, the few hundred Fulham supporters who had travelled to Deepdale would have left happy and I’m sure that wherever he was, Mr. Chervenkov will have been pleased with what he had seen as well.

[JonWo]

Chapter 36: Where For Art Thou Ricky?

We didn’t hang around for long after the match at Deepdale, with myself and the players all eager to get back home. I walked through my front door and to my surprise, there was Ricky, sat in the exact same position as I had left him that morning, staring blankly into space.

“You alright there mate, what’s that you’ve got in your hand?”. Ricky didn’t respond, but as I tried to coerce him into talking, I was interrupted by the sound of the phone ringing. “Just a second mate” I said to Ricky as I went to pick up the receiver. “Boss, it’s Chris, something has happened”, “What is it Chris, are you alright?” I replied as a familiar sense of panic swept over me.

“Yeah, it’s nothing like that” came the worried reply, “It’s my house, someone’s broken in again. I don’t know how they’ve managed to get in without security seeing them, but they’ve done a real number on this place again”. This didn’t seem like a simple coincidence anymore, it appeared that someone was targeting the players’ houses when they were away, breaking in and damaging their property - but who and why?

“Just hold tight Chris, I’ll get Chervenkov to beef up security around your place. Take tomorrow off and make sure your family are all alright, I’ll see you on Tuesday, ok?”. Despite retaining my composure whilst speaking to Chris I was just as worried as he was about the source of the break-ins and wandered who would be next.

However, as I turned around and caught sight of Ricky again, I tried to push it to the back of my mind. I could see that he was holding his Manager of the Month award. “What you doing Ricky? Do you remember when you won that award?”. Ricky gave me a hard stare, “Of course I remember why I won it, I’m not an idiot Jonathan!”. He was becoming increasingly agitated but quickly shrugged off my attempts to calm him down.

“It says right here ‘Ricky Sbragia: Fulham: Premier League Manager of the Month: October’”. I smiled as I sat down opposite him on the sofa, “You really did deserve that award as well mate, you did a terrific job with the team”. Ricky stared at the Manager of the Month award longingly before turning to me and saying “I know my memories not what it used to be, but can you tell me how it happened…”

“How what happened mate?” I enquired, I could see Ricky’s face flushing as he became increasingly frustrated “Stop talking to me like I’m a child” he stormed, “You know what I mean, tell me how you managed to steal my job?!” Steal his job? What on Earth was he talking about? Not only was his memory gone, but he also appeared to be delusional as well.

“Nobody stole anyone’s job Ricky. You just filled in for me whilst I was suspended, you did a great job and then I came back from my suspension and took over again”. Ricky paused for a moment as if what I had said had triggered something in his memory. However, this proved not to be the case, he stood up out of chair and walked over towards me, “I’m sure that’s what you’d like me to think but we both know it’s not true. I was the manager of Fulham and you stole my job. I can promise you one thing ‘mate’, if it’s the last thing I do, I will find out how you screwed me over and I will make you pay for it”.

“Ricky!” I shouted, pleading for him to see sense as he ran out of the front door. He was in no fit state to be out on his own alone at night. I was doubly worried because only a handful of people even knew he was staying with me.

I raced out of the door to go and find him but couldn’t see him anywhere. I spent hours trawling the streets, shouting his name but he seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Eventually, as the cold began to set in I gave up my search and headed home. With nowhere else to turn, I did the only thing I could think of and called Mr. Chervenkov.

However, by now it was 3am and after apologising to the grouchy Russian for waking him up, I explained the situation and he promised to do everything he could to help find him, “Leave it with me Mr. Wolstenholme, I will send out a search party in the morning”.

I could barely concentrate during training the following day as I desperately hoped for news of Ricky’s whereabouts. However, it didn’t come that day or the day after or the day after that.

Fulham vs. Wigan, The Valley

As I watched the fans flocking through the turn-styles and saw each and everyone of them being searched by Mr. Chervenkov’s henchman, my mind couldn’t have been further away from our upcoming fixture against Chris Hutchings lowly Wigan side.

By this stage I was frantic with worry about Ricky and hadn’t heard anything from the chairman regarding his whereabouts. I asked Dmitri if he had heard anything but he replied that the chairman had been very busy recently and even he hadn’t spoken to him.

The game seemed to pass me by as I sat blankly staring out towards the field, seeing a blur of black and white shirts dart about in front of me. I was like a zombie detached from reality; the roar of the crowd, the boos and the feint chants of ‘murderers’ all failed to rouse me and I had to be snapped out of it by Dave, who gave me a gentle slap across the face and said “Games over boss, come on look lively, you’ve been on a different planet all afternoon”.

Fulham ? - ? Wigan

I trudged into the dressing room and noticed that the players looked a little downbeat. Trying to seem professional, I turned and told Dmitri to deliver the post-match team talk. The players were talking to one another but as soon as Dmitri stood in the middle of the room, they fell silent. The Russian slammed his fist against the walk, sending pieces of concrete falling to the floor “That was sh*t! An absolute shambles! You call yourself a football team?! 0-0 against that lot is a disgrace, I think your all very lucky that Mr. Chervenkov wasn’t hear today because he would have been embarrassed with that display”.

Fulham 0 - 0 Wigan

Well, at least I knew what the score was now and it didn’t make for easy listening. I walked over to Dmitri and told him to go and calm down whilst ordering the players to get showered and then go home.

This was another fine mess we had got ourselves into. I rushed home and checked my answering machine for any messages but was gutted to find there were none. I didn’t no where Ricky was but with each passing day I became more worried and less hopeful. Still I clung on to some feint hope, with the knowledge that - as he says - Mr. Chervenkov is a man of his word and he told me that he would find Ricky.

[JonWo]

Chapter 37: Ed Gentlewomen Hon Tool Moors Won

I raced down the stairs shortly before 11am on Sunday, I had been awoken by the sound of the phone ringing and preyed that it would be good news. “Hello?” I answered, “Boss, it’s Sabri. My house got hit last night; they’ve thrown bricks through all of my downstairs windows and my living room looks like a bombs gone off in it”.

‘Oh no, not again’ I thought as I crumpled to the floor, distraught. “And what’s worse boss…” he paused, “Boss, are you still there?”, “Yeah, I’m still here Sabri, I just can’t believe what’s happening”. He continued “What’s worse is that someone’s been upstairs in my bathroom and has scrawled some words in my wife’s lipstick across the mirror”.

A message, whoever was responsible had never left a message before, my heart began racing, “What does it say Sabri?”. “You know my English isn’t great boss and it doesn’t make any sense to me, I don’t even know if it is English, it says ‘Ed gentlewomen hon tool moors won’”. “What?” I replied, “No mate, that’s definitely not English”.

What on Earth could it have meant? I told Sabri to take his family and move to a hotel for the next few days until the heat had died down. I grabbed a pen and paper and scribbled down the phrase, before trying to decipher what it might mean. But my mind went blank so I pushed it to one side and reconvened my hunt for Ricky.

I knew I couldn’t go to the police because that would have drawn even more negative attention from the press. I began phoning around all the local hospitals out of desperation, I didn’t want Ricky to have been injured or even worse, killed, but I needed to know what had happened to him.

Reading vs. Fulham, Madejski Stadium

Another week and not a word from Mr. Chervenkov; no sightings of Ricky, no communication, nothing. Suffice to say I was teetering on the brink of a full scale breakdown and was in completely the wrong kind of mindset to lead my team as we travelled to rock bottom Reading.

After his ludicrously over the top attempt last time, I at least had the wherewithal to ask Dave to do the pre-match team talk instead of Dmitri, much to the chagrin of the Russian. I was half listening as Dave attempted to rally the players, I heard them let out a huge roar as Dave shouted “Now let’s be havin’ ya!”

I knew that the television camera would be at this game, so I made a real effort to look involved and stood on the edge of my technical area with my arms folded for the entire ninety minutes. Suffice to say, despite the action on the pitch my mind quickly began to wander.

I must have looked like a complete mentalist as I stood with my head arced up in the air, deep in my own thoughts. I would occasionally snap out of it and break into short bursts of clapping when my side scored.

However, as these bursts became more and more frequent it suddenly dawned on me that the team were absolutely annihilating Reading; my backroom staff were in a state of absolute delirium. As Dave and Dmitri shared an uneasy embrace at the final whistle, Dave bounded over to me and said “6-0, can you believe it? Away from home as well - that’s one way to respond to last weeks performance, eh boss?”.

Reading 0 - 6 Fulham

I patted Dave on the back as my senses returned and we walked towards the tunnel. “It must have been something you said prior to the game mate, you’ve clearly got the Midas touch” I joked, “I’ll tell you what, how about you do the post match team talk as well; give the boys a real confidence boost and tell them how proud we all are of them”.

As Dave went in to deliver his team talk, I sloped off home. My heart nearly skipped a beat as I saw the red light flashing on my answer phone. It had been nearly two weeks now since Ricky’s disappearance and as I pressed the ‘play’ button, I braced myself for the worst.

The message was mumbled and there was a lot of distortion in the background, but it was clear from the accent that it was Mr. Chervenkov:

“Greetings Mr. Wolstenholme. I can only apologise for my continued absence from the club but I am away on business at the moment and should return within the next week. I can assure you that I have friends and associates scouring the entire South of England searching for your friend Ricky and I am confident that we will find him very soon.

For now, I would like to congratulate you on the teams fantastic performance against Reading this afternoon and hope that you and Dmitri are beginning to form a good understanding. Goodbye for now Mr. Wolstenholme”.

Some people say that no news can often be good news, but I had seen enough news reports and missing person cases to know that the longer a person is missing for, the slimmer the chances are of finding them alive.

I couldn’t bring myself to go into training on Monday, instead I opted to call in sick and continued to phone around all the hospitals in the phone book, in the feint hope that Ricky had turned up. But to no avail, so I began phoning round all the police stations in London - maybe Ricky had been arrested? At the moment, this was one of the best case scenarios.

Fulham vs. Sunderland, The Valley

Three days went by and still nothing. It was almost a welcome relief that we had a mid-week fixture against fourteenth placed Sunderland to help occupy my mind. I threw myself into the preparations; we had fallen twelve points behind table-topping Manchester United and a loss here really would end our slim hopes of winning the title.

“This one is a must win boys” I told the players prior to the match, “If we don’t get the victory here tonight, then you can forget about the title. But let’s remember how good we looked on Saturday against Reading, pick up where you left off there boys and I know we will have enough to get the victory”.

I attempted to keep up appearances as I greeted Sunderland manager Roy Keane - a terrific player who had been a constant thorn in my side during my time at Arsenal. However, he was a relative novice when it came to management and I was confident that my greater experience would help lead us to victory.

Much like their manager, the Sunderland players showed great commitment and matched us every step of the way during the opening half-hour. We had a few half-chances; with Streller and Pandiani both going close, but the Black Cats were holding firm.

However, an under-hit back pass from Paul McShane allowed Pandiani a free run at goal. The Uruguayan was full of confidence after two excellent displays in his previous games and this showed, as he dinked the ball over the on-rushing Craig Gordan to give us the lead.

As Pandiani wheeled away to celebrate with his team-mates, the Sunderland fans who had maintained a respectful quiet during the opening exchanges quickly burst out into chants of ‘Murderers’. It was becoming an increasingly familiar occurrence during our games and our fans again responded by hurling missiles into the away stands.

As half-time arrived, I grabbed the megaphone from the stadium announcer and urged the Fulham fans to remain calm. “I implore you, please do not rise to this offensive chanting. The team are winning and we do not want you to bring further shame on the club. Thank you”.

As I finished speaking, the Sunderland supporters erupted into a chorus of boos, followed by more persistent chants of ‘Murderers’. A small section of our supporters continued to throw missiles at them, but Mr. Chervenkov’s security quickly stepped in and removed them from the ground.

Sarioglu was looking a shadow of his former self and had been an anonymous figure during the first half. I couldn’t blame him after all he had been through in the past week, but with the game still in the balance, I couldn’t afford to have any passengers in the team and replaced him with Srna.

Roy Keane’s men huffed and puffed in the second half without really threatening to equalise. With the game approaching the final five minutes, Giovani ensured that we gained the three points by whipping in a majestic free kick from all of thirty yards out.

Fulham 2 - 0 Sunderland

However preoccupied my mind was, I couldn’t help but recognise that Giovani had just produced something really special. As he came off the pitch, I made a special point of going over to congratulate him, “Magnificent son, even if you score a thousand goals in your career, you’ll never hit one more sweetly than that”. The Mexican smiled and thanked me, as he headed into the changing room.

I attempted to follow him, but was blocked from entering by Dmitri, “Shall I do the talk boss?” he asked, looming over me. I smiled, “No, your ok Dmitri, I think I can handle this one”. I could see the irritation on Dmitri’s face as I pushed past him. “Well done boys. It wasn’t always pretty, but nonetheless, it was effective and you got the job done”.

As I looked around and saw the smiles returning to the faces of the players, I realised that for the first time in nearly a month, I was happy. But that realisation made me feel even more guilty and quickly brought me back down to Earth.

Ricky was out there somewhere and I wouldn’t rest until I had found him. But, there was also someone out there who had it in for this club, there was a real apprehension in the air as the players headed back to their cars and prepared to make there way home - would they be the next ones to fall victim to the intruder who was making our lives a misery?

[JonWo]

Chapter 38: Great Expectations

It proved to be a bittersweet Thursday morning. I was delighted to regain my title as one of London’s most unpopular men; my phone wasn’t ringing and for once, that was a good thing. However, that also meant no updates and no progress in my hunt to track down Ricky.

Training proved to be eventful as ever, the players seemed really pumped up and eager to impress. However, during a five-a-side match, Norambuena’s enthusiasm got the better of him and as he leapt for a header with Larsson, the Swede crumpled in a heap, screaming in pain.

The physio raced out onto the training pitch as the players bustled Norambuena out of the way. Burke and Meira helped the physio carry Larsson to the medical room but when his initial prognosis came back, the news wasn’t good. “Henrik looks like he’s suffered a spinal injury. I can’t be certain about the full extent, but these kind of injuries normally take months to heal, he could be out for a while boss” the physio said.

“Great” I replied sarcastically before turning around to vent my frustration on the players. “We’ve got enough problems without you lot injuring each other, we play hard but fair in training, but that is no excuse to go around making rash challenges like that”. Norambuena sheepishly made his apologies, but I didn’t want to hear it and gave him the dubious pleasure of a bit of one-on-one fitness training with Dmitri. “Don’t worry boss, I’ll work him till he’s on his knees, begging for me to stop… and then I’ll really kick things up a gear”.

Impressed by his enthusiasm, yet slightly taken aback by his attitude, I told Dmitri to return Alexis in one piece, “Were still going to need him for Saturday’s match against Newcastle, so show him a bit of mercy on this occasion, eh Dmitri?”. He begrudgingly agreed but after seeing Alexis come back into the dressing room dripping in sweat and begging for a bottle of water, I was confident that he had learned his lesson.

Fulham vs. Newcastle, The Valley

It was the fifth round of the FA Cup and despite my previous antipathy towards the competition, as we reached the later rounds, it had become more of a priority for me.

Knowing that such a high profile event would attract a lot of publicity and exposure, the still absent Mr. Chervenkov had ordered reinforcements to help bolster his ‘ring of steel’ around The Valley. The message was simple; if you didn’t have ID and a valid ticket, then you were not getting into the ground and this angered a lot of the Newcastle supporters, who had arrived at the stadium hoping to buy a ticket on the turnstiles.

Despite Sam Allardyce’s side lying fifteenth in the league, I knew that on their day they were good enough to compete with the best. With that in mind, I opted to stay with the same starting line up which had begun the match against Sunderland, but urged my players to add a more physical element to their game.

With the pre-match pleasantries out of the way, the game kicked off and for the first time since our relocation to The Valley, we had managed to sell out our allocation of tickets.

I sincerely hoped that we could repay the fans’ faith by putting on a really to classy display. However, after watching the opening exchanges I was far from convinced. It came as no surprise when Newcastle took the lead in the nineteenth minute, although the circumstances of the goal were very much out of sync with our usual approach.

Chris Burke whipped in a corner from the left, but Newcastle easily cleared the ball through Summer signing Vincent Kompany. The Belgian’s header fell to Charles N’Zogbia just short of half way and he used his electric pace to accelerate past Sarioglu, who is no slouch. N’Zogbia reached the byline and delivered a wonderful cross. With our defence struggling to get back in time, it left Obafemi Martins with the simplest of chances to smack the ball home and make it 1-0 to the visitors.

‘What might have been’, I thought as I watched the player who could well have been wearing a Fulham shirt for this fixture careen away to celebrate with his trademark back-flips. I raced out of my dugout and barracked the team for their lack of commitment. My sentiments were echoed by Dmitri, who launched into a full scale tirade. It was again left to me to calm him down, “Take it easy big man, save it for half time” I said as the brute stood there snarling.

The players definitely stepped things up a gear, but Newcastle were defending for their lives. Still, as the half time whistle blew, I knew that we weren’t out of this game yet. “Let me at them boss” Dmitri ordered, I looked at him incredulously, wandering what had happened to him in his life that made him derive such pleasure from putting the fear of God into people. However, I declined his offer, asserting that a more softly, softly approach would garner better results.

“Boys…” I began, “You know this isn’t good enough and you know your giving them far too much space in-behind. We know all about Martins; we can’t match him for pace so I want the defence to play a little deeper”. The players nodded in agreement, “Finally, what I’m seeing from the midfield at the moment is poor. Where’s the creativity? Where’s the spark? Giovani, Burke, Streller” I said addressing the players, “You’ve got fifteen minutes to show me something or I’m hauling you all off. This isn’t a joke boys, I want to see us go far in this competition. Now go out and make it happen”.

As the second half got underway, I caught sight of a flustered looking Mr. Chervenkov taking his seat in the directors box. I stood staring for a good two minutes before he eventually caught my gaze and with his trademark sinister smile, waved in my direction. I raised my arm up in the air to acknowledge his belated arrival, but on the pitch, the team were struggling.

I had readied Seol, Dempsey and Davies to take over from our underperforming midfield trio, but as I waited for the ball to go out of play, Newcastle delivered a hammer blow.

N’Zogbia was again the architect; he made Sarioglu look foolish as he left him in his wake before galloping to the edge of our area. He looked up briefly before delivering a precision cross onto the head of Vincent Kompany and the rest… as they say, is history, 2-0 - Almunia had no chance.

With one last throw of the dice, I removed Burke, Streller and Giovani and threw on the three substitutes. I had made the change more in hope than anything else, but with twenty minutes remaining, Clint Dempsey dispossessed N’Zogbia. Dempsey used his pace to drive into the Newcastle half; on the angle of the penalty area, he feinted to pass to Seol, but instead hit a swirling shot in the direction of Shay Given’s goal. It looked to be heading wide, but the bend on the ball deceived the stationary Newcastle goalkeeper and clipped the post before nestling in the corner of the goal.

“Get in” I shouted, with Dmitri and Dave stood either side of me clapping. “Twenty minutes boys, we can do this” I said, as I watched Seol collect the ball out of the net.

I listened on as Sam Allardyce ordered his team to defend for their lives. They weren’t so much playing a 4-5-1 anymore, it looked more like a 5-5, but with each passing moment, they continued to repel us as we desperately tried to grab the equaliser.

Fulham 1 - 2 Newcastle

As the full time whistle blew, there wasn’t an empty seat in the house. Our fans had stayed until the very death, but on this occasion there was to be no miraculous comeback. However, there was none of the booing that you will hear at other grounds up and down the country, just a solemn and respectful round of applause for a team that tried their best, yet unfortunately came up short.

“Chins up boys” I said in the dressing room after the game. “You played some great stuff in that second half but on the day you lost to the better team”. I looked around the dressing room, as the players sat there disconsolate, “You left it all out there on that pitch today and I can’t ask for anymore, there will be plenty more opportunities for you to set the record straight, but you all need to take this defeat like men and move on”.

I exited the dressing room and left the players to their own devices.

However, as I walked through the tunnel and headed to my car, I was abruptly halted by Dmitri. “Shift Dmitri, I’m not in the mood” I said nonchalantly. I attempted to push past Dmitri, but then I suddenly felt his huge hand clasp firmly around my neck.

“What... what are you doing Dmitri, get off” I stammered, struggling for air. Dmitri’s vice like grip tightened, “You do not deserve this club Mr. Wolstenholme, ‘boss’” he spat. “You are a poor, naïve manager who has cost us our place in the FA Cup quarter final tonight”. I could feel Dmitri becoming more enraged as he lifted me off the floor with one hand, by this stage my face was going blue and I was beginning to feel dizzy.

“Put him down Dmitri” I heard, as Mr. Chervenkov appeared out of nowhere. “How is this anyway to act towards your boss, how dare you treat Mr. Wolstenholme like this?!” he shouted, before viciously slapping Dmitri across the face. “Now get out of here now before I really lose my temper”.

I was shocked to see Dmitri scuttle off like a frightened child. However, it only served to heighten my fear about Mr. Chervenkov’s real authority. I looked on as he watched Dmitri walk out of sight, before bolting his head towards mine.

I didn’t no what had come over him, but suddenly he had this deranged look in his eyes, he moved his face to within centimetres of mine and then in a very calm and collected voice said “Mr. Wolstenholme, you have disgraced this football club this evening. I am embarrassed to be associated with Fulham after the spineless display I have just witnessed”.

I took a backwards step, as Mr. Chervenkov continued, “If I EVER…” he shouted, as the stewards began looking in our direction wandering what all the commotion was about. Mr. Chervenkov calmed himself, but remained menacing as ever, “If I EVER see a performance like that again from my team, then you will be gone from this club in a heartbeat! Do you understand?!”, “Yes Mr. Chervenkov” I said, trembling with fear.

Chervenkov gritted his teeth without taking his eyes off me for a second. After staring me down, he sharply turned away and began heading for the exit, but he had one last thing to add. With a surprising upturn in his demeanour he said “Oh, one last thing Mr. Wolstenholme. I have spoken to Mr. Sarigolu - ‘Ed Gentlewomen Hon Tool Moors Won’ - it means ‘look after your own’ in Russian. I’m sure those intruders thought they were being very clever, but don’t worry, when I find out who they are they will be swiftly dealt with”.

I stood there cradling my neck and trying to regain my breath. Where had all of that come from and why was Mr. Chervenkov so angry? He was a strangely intense man - I’ll give him that - but I thought that the team had performed well and were unlucky to succumb to defeat. I guess now I know that the bar of expectations has been raised higher than ever, nothing but the best will do for Mr. Chervenkov…

[JonWo]

Chapter 39: Cup Final Fever

After regaining my composure, I left The Valley and made my way home. My throat was absolutely killing me and I could barely speak, I had huge red hand marks around my neck from where Dmitri had attempted to throttle me.

Everything seemed so surreal; me and Mr. Chervenkov had always had an uneasy relationship, but why had he suddenly turned on me now? And Dmitri, he was supposed to be my assistant manager, we were never going to be the best of friends and I had begun to sense he resented me, but even with his pea-sized brain he must have realised strangling me wasn’t the best way to go about it.

I was desperate to get home so that I could find something to quell the pain I was feeling around my neck, but the streets around London were gridlocked, as the fans made their way home from the game.

Almost two hours later, I finally arrived at my house and dragged my weary body through the front door. However, nothing could have prepared me for what greeted me upon my return. I stood with the door wide open, as I struggled to take in what I saw before me; furniture tipped over, pictures ripped off the walls, cups and plates smashed. My eyes glazed over and shockwaves ripped through my body; it was me - I was the latest victim of the elusive intruder who had been plaguing my club.

As I stared on in disbelief, a rustling sound in the living room made me freeze in fear. The intruder was still here, what was I going to do? I was still a little fragile after my encounter with Dmitri and instead of storming in and disrupting the intruder, I let out a tentative cry, “Hello? It’s Jonathan, who is this?”.

I must have caught the intruder unawares because the next thing I knew, my backdoor slammed shut as they made their getaway. I was too frightened to give chase and instead, crumpled to a heap on the floor crying. How had it come to this? I was once such a proud, determined man, who would bow down to know-one, but my spirit had been broken.

I didn’t sleep a wink that evening, so fraught was I with worry that I kept a cricket bat next to my bedside, fearing that the intruder would return.

However, as dawn broke and the sun began to billow through the curtains in my bedroom, I felt a great sense of relief - I was safe, for now.

It was Monday morning and the start of a new week, but not just any old week; this was cup final week and the first chance for our fans to see the new look Wembley. As fate had conspired, we would be doing battle with my old adversary Sir. Alex Ferguson and our main title rivals Manchester United.

Still, this was a far cry from the bedraggled figure who had just about found enough courage to lurch from underneath his bedcovers. I was a nervous wreck and not for the first time during my tenure at Fulham, I had no wish to go and join the boys on the training ground.

But then that old stoicism kicked in; there I was sat in front of the television in my robe, eating my cornflakes and wishing that all my problems would just go away. This had never been a ploy that had worked before and wasn’t about to start now. I realised that I couldn’t let Dmitri, Mr. Chervenkov, and the intruder get me down - I was in charge of my own destiny - my clubs destiny - and if I wasn’t man enough to face my problems head on, then I might as well just pack this whole management malarkey in right now.

You’ll be happy to know that I didn’t and after a quick shower, I pulled on my tracksuit and then drove to the training ground. I buzzed myself through the security cordon and made my way onto the pitch. I was immediately confronted by a smirking Dmitri, stood with his arms folded, he failed to hide his smugness “What time do you call this ‘boss’?” he said pointing to his watch.

I was determined to re-establish my control over the team and wasn’t prepared to let Dmitri bully and undermine me “Go home Dmitri” I yelled, as the players turned to face our direction. Determined to make a point and stand my ground, I continued “Now! Go home Dmitri, your not needed here anymore”. I could see in Dmitri’s eyes that he was boiling over with rage, but as I stood pointing him towards the exit, he replied “This isn’t over” before making his way to the car park.

As soon as Dmitri had driven out of sight I turned to Dave, winked at him and said “You’re my number two now mate”, “Glad to be back” he replied, with a huge smile on his face. The players were equally happy to see the back of Dmitri; his intimidating manner and abrasive attitude towards them had caused morale to plummet and this had been evident in their last few matches.

During the next few days, the feel good factor returned to the club and despite a potentially season defining match coming up, the player seemed relaxed and were beginning to enjoy their football again. Me and Dave were working around the clock; by day we spent our time training with the players and at night, we were holed up at Dave’s house for hours on end watching videos of United’s most recent matches and plotting their downfall.

As the big day approached, cup final fever swept the city and men and women of all ages proudly paraded their black and white shirts through the town centre. Make no mistake about it, this was the biggest game in Fulham’s history and had really captured the publics imagination.

The week seemed to whiz by in a flash and before I knew it, it was Friday. I had given the players the day off so that they could go out and buy some ‘tasteful’ suits for the cup final. However, after some of the dodgy outfits I had seen at the New Years Eve party, I wasn’t holding out much hope on this one. Still, it didn’t really matter what the players looked like as long as they did the business where it really mattered, on the pitch.

However, there were to be no pre-match shopping excursions for me; as I always say ‘a managers work is never finished’ and I was heading into the Valley to catch up on some paperwork and make some phone calls. I had always prided myself on being prepared and unbeknownst to anyone else, I had ordered five crates of champagne to be delivered to our dressing room directly after the game. A little previous - perhaps - but I had a really good feeling about this game and knew that the boys would do me proud.

I left my office shortly after 1pm to go and get some lunch. As I made my way through the corridors inside The Valley, I suddenly heard a commotion coming from one of the offices. I could hear two men laughing hysterically; intrigued, I pressed my ear against the door and listened on, wandering what was so amusing.

It soon became apparent from the sound of the thick Russian accents that it was Dmitri and Mr. Chervenkov speaking in the office. I was slightly perplexed because the last time I had seen the two of them together they didn’t exactly part on the best of terms, but here they were, laughing like nothing had ever happened.

As the laughter quelled, I heard Dmitri begin to speak “Jokes aside boss, what are we going to do about him? We cannot let him get away with disrespecting both of us in this way, how dare he try and fire me!”. I winced as I heard a loud thud - presumably Dmitri hitting his hand against the wall - he wasn’t very good at expressing himself any other way.

He continued “You know boss, if I was manager of this football club I would be showing you a whole lot more respect. The team would still be in the FA Cup and we would almost certainly be top of the league. This Wolstenholme guy, he’s holding the club back and you just know that he’s going to end up bottling it again tomorrow. So what do you say boss - ‘Dmitri Kherzakov: Fulham manager’ - it has a nice ring to it, don‘t you think?”

I heard Mr. Chervenkov chuckle to himself and there was then a long silence before he replied “We have a plan for Mr. Wolstenholme, Dmitri and he knows that if he doesn’t bring the League Cup back to Fulham tomorrow night, there will be deadly consequences”.

[JonWo]

Chapter 40: The League Cup Final

I left The Valley with the cackles of Mr. Chervenkov and Dmitri still ringing in my ears. I had reached my limit and was not happy with the direction the club was heading in with those two at the helm. So I made my mind up then and there that this would be my last season in management.

I wasn’t getting any younger and despite my passion for the game being as strong as ever, I could no longer bring myself to deal with all of the back-biting and boardroom politics that came with the job.

However, these were exceptional circumstances; never before in my career had I ever encountered a chairman so corrupt and devious as Mr. Chervenkov. But in-spite of everything going on behind the scenes and my loathing for the man, I was determined to go out with a bang and win some silverware for the long suffering Fulham fans.

With all these thoughts whirling around in my head, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get any sleep, so I popped down to the local chemists to buy some pills which would help knock me out for the evening. The pills seemed to work their magic and I was tucked up in bed shortly after 9pm.

I woke up bright and early the following day and was absolutely buzzing with excitement; I felt like a child on Christmas morning but my enthusiasm and joy was tinged with a sense of apprehension about how the afternoon might play out.

“Here we are boys, Wembley stadium” I exclaimed as the players clambered off the team coach, decked out in their new suits. “This is what all of your hard work has been for” I said, as they all stared up at the famous arch, awe-struck. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a black Mercedes pull up in the parking lot opposite our coach. I watched as Mr. Chervenkov and Dmitri stepped out of the car, looking decidedly shifty, before casually making their way into the stadium.

I watched them until they disappeared out of my sight. I knew how much was riding on this game and I knew that I dare not lose, but I tried to put the Russian owner and his threats to the back of my mind as I ushered the players towards the dressing room.

Fulham vs. Manchester United, Wembley Stadium, League Cup Final

The fans had flocked to Wembley in their droves and were creating a real carnival atmosphere outside of the ground as they sang songs and drank beer in the nearby bars. Our allocation of tickets had sold out within thirty minutes of going on sale, with some fans even camping outside of The Valley overnight to ensure that they got a ticket for the biggest match in Fulham’s history.

As kick off approached and the atmosphere reached boiling point, I stood in the centre of the supposedly unlucky away dressing room and got ready to deliver my final words of inspiration. I took a deep breath; I had been involved in many big matches during my career and whilst some people may call the League Cup a ‘mickey mouse’ competition, it meant absolutely everything to me at this moment in time.

“Today is the day boys. Today is the day for you to cement your places as legends here at Fulham. We go into this game as the underdogs, but this will suit you all down to the ground. We all know that United have match winners in their side, but so do we. I want you to show no fear and really let them no that their in a match right from the off. Today is your chance to go down in Fulham folklore as the un-fancied team who toppled the seemingly unbeatable giants of Manchester United. This next ninety minutes will be your legacy to those fans who have stuck by you through thick and thin - go out and do us all proud”.

The players all rose to their feet, applauding my speech. Meira gathered them in a huddle in the centre of the dressing room and tried to rally the boys even further. After a few moments, each and every one of them burst out into a loud roar and stormed out of the dressing room with their game-faces on. They stood side by side with Rio Ferdinand, Wayne Rooney, Cristiano Ronaldo and the rest of United’s galaxy of stars as they waited in the tunnel.

As they strode out onto the pitch they were greeted by a deafening roar from both sets of supporters. My heart was bursting with pride as I watched my team - who had started off as a rag-tag bunch of misfits - prepare to rub shoulders with the best in the land. I said a silent prayer as I took my seat in the dugout - please, let today be our day.

“Come on boys!!” I screamed as the game got underway. I didn’t move from the edge of my technical area for the first ten minutes of the half. The match had set off at quite a pace and the action flowed from end to end. However, with both teams still feeling each other out, it was United who had the first major chance, just after the twenty minute mark.

I grimaced as I watched Sarioglu clatter into Paul Scholes on the edge of our penalty area. “This could be dangerous, looks like Ronaldo territory” Dave mumbled to me, echoing my own sentiments. As the Portuguese winger stood over the ball, hands on hips, I could hardly bare to watch. However, I breathed a sigh of relief as his venomous effort came crashing off of the bar, before being hoofed up field by Sokratis.

It had been a major let-off, but as the half progressed United looked the more likely to break the deadlock. It was only thanks to some last-ditch defending that we managed to escape with the score level at half time. Wayne Rooney had seen a twenty yard volley narrowly go wide, before Norambuena had cleared a goal bound Nani effort off the line.

We really were on the rack and the half time whistle proved to be a welcome relief. We had shown little in the way of attacking intent and I knew that if game continued as it had been going, there would only be one outcome.

I furrowed my brow and tried to think of the right words as I stood, holding court in the dressing room. “Boys, this just isn’t good enough” I said, with a pained expression on my face. “This is the League Cup final, this is the sum of all your hard work and I know that you don’t want to throw it all away at this stage. Mark my words boys, I have lost more than a few of these finals during my career and there is nothing more painful than having to watch the opposition go up to collect that trophy after the game. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. Please…” I implored, “Please, make sure it does not happen to you today”.

There were no changes at the break but I hoped that my heart felt words would resonate with the players. Our toothless display in the first half hadn’t dampened the spirit of our fans and despite being in the minority, they continued to out-sing the United supporters as the game recommenced.

Still, it was United who continued to look the more threatening. Rooney again went close with a header, but his effort was expertly saved by Manuel Almunia. Fifteen minutes in and with no change to the pattern of play, I acted decisively and rang the changes. Burke and Giovanni were hauled off, with Dempsey and Seol coming on to take their place.

The two substitutes had an almost immediate impact and but for the width of a goal post, Seol would have scored with his first touch of the game, after getting on the end of Dempsey’s angled cross. However, his diving header cruelly rebounded off the woodwork and out of play for a goal kick.

“That’s more like it boys!” I shouted onto the field “Keep it up, keep focused, they’re there for the taking”. As I finished delivering my message to the players, Sir. Alex looked towards me, furiously chomping on his chewing gum and gave me a look of pure contempt. He replied “Oi, Rooney, Ronaldo; step it up a gear, we need a goal to finish this sorry lot off”.

‘Charming’ I thought, but I was determined not to get embroiled in a war of words with my opposite number and ignored his disrespectful comments, choosing instead to focus on the game as it headed into its final twenty minutes.

With only three minutes left on the clock and with the prospect of extra time looming, we had a chance to win the game, as Rio Ferdinand was pressured by Seol into knocking the ball behind for a corner.

Clint Demsey raced over to take the corner in front of our supporters, who let out an impassioned roar as he prepared to take the kick. As he curled the ball in, the ground fell silent. I stood at the edge of my technical area, with Dave beside me, willing for someone - anyone - to get on the end of the cross. And they did - Sokratis; that absolute star who had been magnificent all year climbed above Nemanja Vidic and directed his header past Edwin van der Sar.

As the crowd descended into a state of bedlam and the Greek defender wheeled away to celebrate, I watched as Wes Brown kicked the ball out back onto the field of play.

I began to panic, referee Howard Webb hadn’t blown his whistle to signal a goal and as our entire team piled on top of Sokratis in front of our delirious supporters, I was horrified to see that United were playing on.

“The ball didn’t go over the line” I screamed, trying to summon my players’ attention. However, with all the noise and cheering in the stadium they didn’t hear me. I looked on helplessly as United nonchalantly played the ball up field to Wayne Rooney. The England star bore down on a brutally exposed Manuel Almunia before powering the ball past the hapless Spaniard.

No sooner had my team finished their ill-fated celebration, than they were faced with the shattering realisation that it was United - and not us, who were 1-0 up. Fernando Meira looked close to tears as the situation became clear; he collapsed on the floor with his hands over his head, as the United fans celebrated on the opposite side of the ground.

I was absolutely beside myself and was struggling to fight back the tears. “No” I whimpered “Please… not like this”.

Fulham 0 - 1 Manchester United

[JonWo]

Chapter 41: League Cup Final: The Aftermath

I stood on the touchline absolutely dumbfounded as Howard Webb blew the final whistle. Virtually all of my team crumpled to the floor in a sea of mass despair as the United players began hugging and congratulating each other.

It was the cruellest of cruel blows and the most gut-wrenching way to lose a cup final. I had no words for the players after the game, I simply hugged and embraced whoever was nearest to me as our grief began to overflow.

However, as the trophy presentation began and the delighted United players hopped about excitedly waiting for their big moment, me and the boys watched on stoically, our arms wrapped around one another, as a solitary tear dropped down my cheek.

As United began their lap of honour, I gave the nod for my heartbroken players to leave the pitch. But not before they had trudged over to our fans to thanks them for their phenomenal support. The players applauded the fans and the fans applauded them right back, but neither of them could manage to hold back their disappointment. It had been a game that had promised so much and at one point, looked like delivering.

The players finished there half-hearted thank you and then returned to the dressing room. I could have delivered a speech praising their attitude, their commitment and their desire, but at this time it would all have sounded a little hollow. “Get tidied up and then go home boys” I said solemnly, “What else can I say? You didn’t deserve what just happened out there, it was a massive injustice. But what can we do - unfortunately, that is just they way things go sometimes. Take Monday off lads… get your head right and I will see you on Tuesday”.

Dave and the players left the dressing room absolutely crest-fallen, as I stood there feeling a sorrow that burned deep into my heart. As I held the door open and said goodnight to the last few players to leave the dressing room, I turned to go and sit on the bench for a moment and collect my thoughts.

However, before the door even had a chance to slam shut, Mr. Chervenkov and Dmitri burst in with a look of determined rage on their faces. “Dmitri, leave, you know what you have to do…” Mr. Chervenkov ordered. As Dmitri exited, Mr. Chervenkov fixed me with his steely gaze and I could smell the scent of stale vodka on his breath as he began “Well Mr Wolstenholme, this has been another embarrassment for Fulham”.

I tried to retreat, but as he continued to step forward, he had me trapped as I stumbled on to a nearby bench, “Don’t try to run Mr. Wolstenholme, I am not going to hurt you” he said, snarling “But you must realise that what has just transpired on the pitch out there is not acceptable”. I felt a lump in my throat, as I tried to meet Mr. Chervenkov’s eye, still fraught with fear. “Mr. Wolstenholme, you are a poor, naïve manager who has sullied the good name of Fulham Football Club, my team; with your poor choices and even more inept style of management. I want you to take this…” he said, passing me a folded up piece of paper.

He continued in his menacing tone, “This note holds the key to your future, don’t forget that you are hanging by a thread and most other chairman would have fired you before now. But I am merciful chairman… however, I want you to go home and take scope before you read my little message. Don’t forget, I am the man who controls your future and if you mess with me, you will regret it for the rest of your life. DO YOU UNDERSTAND MR. WOLSTENHOLME?!” Chervenkov yelled, spitting in my face.

By now I was beside myself with fear and would have done anything he asked of me “Yes, Mr. Chervenkov” I managed “I will do as you say, rest assured”. “Good” he said, “Now get out of my sight you incompetent old fool!” he barked, pushing me towards the door of the changing room.

I was trembling with fear and wanted out of this club… now! I wasn’t too big of a man to admit that Mr. Chervenkov scared the life out of me and with his note in my pocket, I began running towards the nearest main road. I quickly flagged down a taxi and jumped in. “Ayy, it’s Mr. Wolstenholme. Hard lines tonight mate, but you can’t argue that United deserved their victory” said the taxi driver.

It was Rodrigo, but I was too upset and too distressed to rise to his baiting and told him to leave it “Just take me home, will you. I’m not in the mood tonight”.

“Ok, sorry mate” came the reply, “So where are we going?” he asked chirpily. “Fulham, London” I replied abruptly.

I sat in the taxi, looking out of the window and watching as we sped through Piccadilly Circus. As the journey continued and we got stuck in traffic, my inquisitive nature got the better of me and I reached for the note in my pocket. I unscrewed the crumpled piece of paper and gazed on at Mr. Chervenkov’s cryptic message:

Ed Gentlewomen Hon Tool Moors Won

One Down One to Go Mr Wolstenholme

Words failed me as I began to put all the pieces of this horrifying jigsaw in to place. Rodrigo was listening to the radio, but it was all just background noise for me; that was until I heard the news report come on:

“The body of a man found floating in the Thames has been identified as that of former Fulham assistant manager Ricky Sbragia. Mr. Sbragia was thought to have been in Japan, but in recent weeks it had transpired that his move to Gamba Osaka was nothing but a hoax. The police have no leads at this time, but are treating the case as suicide”.

My jaw dropped wide open as I began to take in the enormity of what I had just heard. “It must be some kind of sick joke” I wailed, as Rodrigo turned around looking sympathetic and then abruptly brought the taxi to a standstill in the middle of nowhere. I expected a sympathetic ear but as I sat in the backseat, crumpling in despair, he callously added “I am sorry it had to end this way”.

He then through me out of the backseat of the car and as I lay prone on the ground, a tall silhouetted figure of a man appeared over me. My eyes glazed over with fear as I saw him draw what looked like a gun out from the back of his coat. The man didn’t speak, but with one swift movement he pulled the trigger. Bang! Bang!