Fourteen Days

[Lawlore]

Prologue

"And the full time whistle blows, confirming what, in reality, was settled long ago- Preston will be the ones heading to Wembley!"

That final whistle wasn't one of relief, it wasn't really even one of celebration. The whole match was just kind of a non-event, and the whistle was just getting that step out of the way. Sure, the lads on the pitch were happy, why wouldn't they be? But ever since my return to England at the start of the season, there was only one target, and all that whistle signified was a step towards correcting a failure. My job, in my single-minded head, was to get Preston North End back into the league.

The year is 2035, the date, Sunday, 6th May.

As a fifty-something manager, football has already taken me all over the lower reaches of the world, generally without any kind of real accomplishment to crow about, and more relegation battles- won and lost- than I'd care to imagine. But, after countless 12 and 18-month appointments in China, Korea, Wales, Ireland, Belgium and too many other places to name, finally I'd started to make a bit of a name for myself, at Portuguese side Limianos.

A promotion for the unknown side into the Portuguese Second League, followed by two seasons of establishing the club as a capable midtable outfit, punching way, way above their weight, and suddenly I had a little bit of buzz about me- a few chairmen getting in touch, hoping I could capture lightning in a bottle a second time. Time and time again, I said no. Limianos had given me that chance, had shown me faith, and were going places. We weren't just building a team, but a squad, and a future. Every step took us further and further along, every season crept us that bit further up the table. But then, with my contract expiring... then came Preston.

Before I got into management, I grew up a Gillingham fan, and Preston were always one of those clubs that were a division above the Gills- that touch more professionalism, those noticeably bigger crowds, a club steeped in so much history. One of the big names of the early days of football, and still one of the bigger non-Premier clubs. That made the demise of the club over the past 20 years or so incredible to see. After promotion to the Championship in 15/16, things turned sour, and they just dropped and dropped. By the 26/27 season, they'd dropped out of League 2, and since then, they'd been relegated even further, to the Conference North.

This wasn't right. This was a club that was far, far too big to be wallowing in non-league, and even taking into account the promotion back into the Conference National two years ago, they were at least two divisions lower than where they rightfully belonged. The fact that they came calling to me at all shows just how sad times are, considering my previous stints at the likes of Chippenham, Bromley and Hereford had far from showered me in glory. The chairman wanted me to secure a safe, midtable spot- to continue to build steadily. I told him to forget that- I told him we were going up. This club is too big to be in this division.

The season's been a long one. It took a while to find a rhythm, and ultimately, a rough patch of five without a win way back in September has cost us the title and cast us into the playoffs. I tell the press exactly what I think, and use the same words to motivate the team- that this is a club that is way below where it should be, and that it is disgraceful that we're sharing a division with the likes of Rushall Olympic and Margate. I don't care if it comes across as arrogant. Preston North End should not be in this division, and I'm righting a wrong by getting us promoted.

We won the FA Trophy with ease. We made the fifth round of the FA Cup, claiming the Championship scalp of Southend on the way, and gave Premier League side Aston Villa a decent battle before getting knocked out. But none of that matters to me. We should not be "scalping" Southend- we should be the favourites, looking down at them. We should not consider winning the FA Trophy, against a bunch of perennial amateurs and non-league sides, any kind of achievement.

All that whistle signifies is the start of the countdown. There are fourteen days until the Playoff Final now, fourteen days before we step out at Wembley and take on those 4th-placed chancers, Maidstone United, for a place back in the League. A place that only one club can get. A place that only one club should rightfully have. A place that, in any right-thinking world, only one club should have any chance of getting. I am going to take Maidstone out, and I am going to take Preston up. Dispatching Cambridge 5-1 on aggregate means nothing now- the outcome was a foregone conclusion long ago, and they are gone from my mind in an instant. The only thing that matters now is that we don't screw up, like we did by letting Oldham get so far clear of the rest of the pack that we just couldn't catch them.

No- now, there are no excuses, no "ifs" or "buts". This has to happen.

[tenthreeleader]

Very nice start -- and good to see you posting again!

[Lawlore]

Monday, 7th May 2035: Day One

A lesson you learn very quickly in football is that if, when you come in to the office the morning after a game, there is a flashing light on the telephone sitting on your desk, it will be a message from the physio.

I don't know what it is about physiotherapists- whether it's something they learn at physio school, or whether it's just ingrained in their psyche, but in my experience, it's been pretty much the same the world over. They don't text, they don't call you at home, or your mobile. No- they wait. Without fail, they always, always wait until the next morning to deliver their terrible news.

And so, when you come in, the morning after a game, you're crossing your fingers that the little red light isn't flashing. Nobody else calls at that time of the morning, and if they haven't already called, they won't. They do it to leave a message, because they don't really want to talk to you, and they don't want you to call them back. They're strange little creatures who pass on their message and then want to be left alone to work their magic. And, frankly, that's fine by me. Niall Clay, our Head Physio, is no exception to this rule.

*flash*

Bollocks.

*flash*

On the desk are assorted paper clippings, the match reviews and reports of our 2-1 win over Cambridge, taking us to 5-1 on aggregate. And, as much as I told the lads not to lose focus, not to get complacent, I have to admit, I already had my eye on Maidstone at Wembley. Those papers aren't going to tell me anything useful.

*flash*

But, fair play to the boys, job done. It wasn't a pretty win by any stretch of the imagination- it wasn't even that much of a game, with Cambridge also seeming to realise that the result was already settled in the first leg. Nothing really too noteworthy- Matthew Daniel Laslett running the show from the back as he has done all season, showing that he's really too good for this non-league malarkey.

*flash*

I know what that message is going to be about, and I'm deliberately ignoring it. It'll be about Nigel Booty, the lad from Boreham Wood. Joined us on loan from Boreham Wood at the end of the January window to give us a little bit of depth up front, and has done his bit- filled in where the other loan signing, Jordan Doyle, hasn't been quite so successful. Nige has, so he's in the mix for the first team.

*flash*

However, Nige also had to go off after about half an hour against Cambridge- bit of a nasty collision, and if he is out for the Maidstone game, it leaves us a bit thin on the ground. Remi O'Leary and Ian Griffin are both fit and in form, but are also very similar in style- small and quick, hanging off the last man. Playing one or the other alongside a big man is great, but they haven't really ever thrived when playing together, since they keep making the same runs and getting in each other's way.

*flash*

Oh, for crying out loud... enough with the flashing.

"Hey boss man, bad news..."

It's always bad news when he starts calling me boss man.

"JJ's out of the final."

Wait- JJ? John Johnson? Not Nigel? I mean, sure, we took Johnson off at half-time in the Cambridge match because he hurt his toe, but surely it's not that serious? A bit of bruising- he's got two weeks to heal...

"His toe is swollen up like a plum. It's not a pretty sight, boss man, I promise ya. He's barely able to stand on it, think we're looking at a few weeks off his feet."

You know what- I don't need to hear the rest of the message, you can imagine the gist of it. And, I'm actually slightly relieved. Harsh as it may sound, JJ being out isn't really the end of the world- he's a midfielder we brought in on loan from MK Dons who has just kind of fit in here and there when we've needed him. Solid enough, but hasn't made much of an impression- to be honest, he probably would've been dropped for the final anyway, now that Kenny Hill's back from his latest suspension. Missing Johnson is much less problematic than losing a striker like Nigel Booty would've been.

So, yeah, sorry, JJ, off the subs bench and into the injured box. Back off to Franchise FC with you, we'll send you a postcard from Wembley. I'm afraid I've got more important things to worry about right now than your toe- I've got a Playoff Final to win.