Disgruntledgoat
Player Valuation: £50m
As some of you know, I do a bit of writing. Mostly for money, but sometimes for fun. I try combine my passion for the sport of cycling with my passion for writing and sometimes I try to write about other things I love. I was also inspired by the Duncan Ferguson thread.
I am also a helpless Football Manager addict. Currently, I am deeper into a career than I have ever gone, having started out back in November with Everton, I have played through 14 seasons and am still going. In that time, fan favourites have come and gone, there have been good times and bad times but it's always been so very Everton. My girlfriend is sick of my stories so now I plan to inflict them on you, based on the data still available to me in the game. I'll try to make it entertaining too. The first one is below. I'll split each season into three parts and try to get an update every few days. Unless everybody hates it, then I'll give up.
NB: The earliest of these seasons was played out back in November, detail will get heavier as we go forward.
2018/19: Pre Season
I put the whistle to my lips and blow. I can’t stand to see Theo Walcott trip over his feet one more time. A ball bounces off the back of Kevin Miralles’ head as the players turn to face me.
“We’re done for today. Go home and we’ll try again in the morning.” I sigh. It’s my first day at Finch Farm. Some sort of psychosis seems to have overcome every part of Everton Football Club since Marco Silva was last seen, folding his clothes into a neat pile on the beach at Formby before walking out to sea. Perhaps the most bizarre symptom of this is that nobody has questioned the tale I told in my interview of representing England 28 times, scoring on seven occasions and having a full complement of coaching qualifications. The little dance I did at being offered a one year contract on €40,000 a week didn’t even tip them off.
And now, here I am. In the plush chair in the manager’s office. In the plush chair in the manager’s office banging my head against the rich, rich mahogany of the manager’s desk. This won’t do. This won’t do at all. It was bad enough when Coleman asked me about tactics.
“Do what Silva had you doing, you’ll be fine. And listen to Joao over there, he’ll tell you what’s what with the training”, I flap gesturing to my incredulous assistant.
“So… How will doing the same thing with the same players help us improve, boss?” He asked, all innocent like.
“Because I believe in you boys, that’s why.” I replied “And I love this club. Those things are important. Whilst I’d probably only mark myself a 13 out of 20 for tactical awareness and 12 for technical knowledge. I’m a solid 18 on motivation and man management. That, and my eye for a player… we’ll be fine. Now stop asking daft questions and… do what Joao says.”
But it won’t be fine… will it? Because I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. And this squad is terrible. And there’s only €8m in the kitty. And only €15k a week free in the wage budget, there’s a real possibility that I’m going into battle with Calvert Lewin as my hit man. Now from what I’ve seen of Dom, he’s great. He’s like a golden retriever, run all day, smile on his face, chasing butterflies… But he lacks a certain ruthlessness.
I pick up the phone and summon Brands. I hate Marcel Brands. His suits, his air of continental sophistication, how nice he smells. He thinks he’s better than me. He thinks he knows more about football than me. He’s right.
In his defence, he recognises this mob’s weaknesses with even more detached ruthlessness than myself and with only 14 days until we jet off for a friendly at CSKA Moscow, we need a plan. A plan is duly hatched. By the next afternoon, an alarmingly long list of deadwood has been drawn up and we’re bashing the phones to find homes for our strays…
There are no takers. Nobody wants this bunch of misfits, waifs and orphans. Never mind, in true Everton style, we go with what we have and I dispatch Brands and his team to scour Europe for a striker. I spend my afternoons in my plush chair in the manager’s office, rocking back and forth.
The trip to CSKA yields a surprising 4-0 victory, Morgan Schneiderlin and Richarlison sending us in two up at half time, whilst my patchwork strike force of Calvert-Lewin and, from the bench, Oumar Niasse give me food for thought in the striker department. Having found all of my predecessor’s notes on training and tactics in the desk, underneath the sherry bottles, I have slavishly copied his 4-2-3-1 formation and it has yielded us some bonafide optimism with seven days before our next hit out in a week’s time at Spartak Moscow. Until then a pre-season jaunt of funny hats and expensive call girls awaits.
The day before the Spartak game, I am roused from my slumber at 10am by the ringing of my hotel phone. Svetlana has already departed and my vodka-induced hangover is kicking in violently as I press the receiver to my ear… It’s the club secretary back at base. Brands wants my ok to farm out somebody called Tyias Browning on a season long loan to Hull. I vaguely recall him, but figure if he was any good he’d be sleeping off a hangover here. Done. My first transfer. I celebrate with two ibuprofen and a belt of vodka.
Our second pre-season game passes off as breezily as the first. My policy of rotating the strikers to see who is least rubbish backfires spectacularly as Cenk Tosun pops up on the end of a Bernard cross to nod home after 6 minutes before their centre back decides to replicate Cenk into his own goal. They pull one back in injury time but it’s another satisfactory performance.
There are two weeks before our next friendly out in Turkey. Time to drill the players and for me and my Dutch nemesis to ruthlessly pare away the deadwood. I hate JonJoe Kenny and his stupid face moping about the place every day so, using my newfound power of loaning players out, I palm him off to Leeds for the year. I make some conciliatory noises about his development, but in truth I’m just freeing up cash on the off chance I can afford to buy anybody. The window is alarmingly static.
Just as I’m shoving Kenny and his dejected face out of the door, Brands pops in. “I’ve got one” he announces, and the game is afoot. BK Hacken are not a noted producer of top talent and the 17 year old Kevin Ackermann is not a name to set the pulse racing, he won’t be anywhere near the first team for a start, but at €950k he’ll placate the fans lust for signings and that I’m looking after the future of the club. He’s a decent enough ball winning midfielder, if he applies himself he could be Premier League quality. Me and Marcel give the lad the hard sell, 5k a week and stick him in the U23s to learn his craft.
As I’m convinced Brands is just a nice suit and better personal hygiene ahead of me in the talent identification business, I decide to freelance it a little bit. Hunting through the dregs of Europe’s elite I chance upon Marcos Llorente, a slightly more developed version of Ackerman in Real Madrid’s youth team, I mean he must be good if he’s playing there, right? Right? I complete the deal in the Hotel in Turkey, away from Brands obsessive need to control all the transfers and beautiful hair… I’ll deal with the angry phone call when he rocks up at Finch Farm later. I’ve a game to manage.
We huff and we puff and we pound away at Konyaspor until finally a moment of magic from Richarlison, jinking into the space between fullback and centre back and lashing the ball across the keeper, gives us a 1-0 win. The only takeaway from a terrible game is that we are badly in need of a striker who knows where the goal is.
Our final friendly is against Real Madrid. The club who’s pocket’s my masterful talent identification has just robbed of the flower of their youth. It’s Leighton Baine’s testimonial and my first game at Goodison to boot. I strut into the stadium like a peacock and shake Zidane’s hand , reminiscing about my 28 England caps which he seems oddly non-plussed by and commiserating with him that I’ve picked his pocket with my €1.6m coup for Llorente. He must have remembered something funny somebody told him earlier because he chuckled a bit at that point.
The game itself passes by in a haze of ennui. Nobody wants to be here. Not Zidane and his crop of fancy dans, not the 22,467 blues who pay at the gate, not me and certainly not Dominic Calvert Lewin who spurns any chance he has of starting against Crystal Palace in 2 week’s time by consistently fluffing his lines. A 0-0 bore draw, enlivened only slightly by the novelty cheque Baines will depositing at the Cats Protection League in Maghull come the morning.
Back at Finch farm, I’ve got 2 weeks and €5m to erase the possibility that Oumar Niasse starts my first competitive game in charge. I can’t even loan anyone as I can’t afford their wages. I mark time by punting Beni Banigime and Fraser Hornby on loan to Reading and Inverness respectively. Ideally, I’d have liked to have put Hornby further away from my plans but geography isn’t always co-operative. To compound my misery Kurt Zouma collapses in training with a knee knack that will keep him out for two months. Bloody wonderful is that.
The day the transfer window closes, as I’m contemplating if 11am is too early to be breaking open the scotch and whether Josh Bowler going on loan to Eastleigh is going to get me on Sky Sports News, the phone rings. It’s Raphael Benitez. At first I think he just wants to discuss my glittering international career, but it’s soon clear that isn’t the case. He wants to give me €16.75m Euros. For the services of Cenk Tosun. I glimpse down to the training pitches and see the lad playing wall-y. He’s just missed the wall. I complete the call, do a victory dance on my desk then call security and ask them to have Tosun escorted from the premises. I celebrate by calling Juventus and offering them a very convenient €16.75m for the services of an 18 year old kid currently on loan at Hellas Verona.
He’s one to dream on this lad, strong, fast, great with the ball at his feet. A real modern complete forward and exactly what I’ve been looking for to spearhead my system. Moise Kean will be an Evertonian. By paying him the exact Є60k a week I just freed up with Tosun, my parlous grip on solvency is maintained and just three days before the season starts we have our talisman.
Brands gripes at me about a buyback clause as I pack Moise off to the Titanic to get settled. I tell him we’re with the big boys now and there’s no way a club like Everton get that kind of player without a buyback clause. Who does he think he is?
I am also a helpless Football Manager addict. Currently, I am deeper into a career than I have ever gone, having started out back in November with Everton, I have played through 14 seasons and am still going. In that time, fan favourites have come and gone, there have been good times and bad times but it's always been so very Everton. My girlfriend is sick of my stories so now I plan to inflict them on you, based on the data still available to me in the game. I'll try to make it entertaining too. The first one is below. I'll split each season into three parts and try to get an update every few days. Unless everybody hates it, then I'll give up.
NB: The earliest of these seasons was played out back in November, detail will get heavier as we go forward.
2018/19: Pre Season
I put the whistle to my lips and blow. I can’t stand to see Theo Walcott trip over his feet one more time. A ball bounces off the back of Kevin Miralles’ head as the players turn to face me.
“We’re done for today. Go home and we’ll try again in the morning.” I sigh. It’s my first day at Finch Farm. Some sort of psychosis seems to have overcome every part of Everton Football Club since Marco Silva was last seen, folding his clothes into a neat pile on the beach at Formby before walking out to sea. Perhaps the most bizarre symptom of this is that nobody has questioned the tale I told in my interview of representing England 28 times, scoring on seven occasions and having a full complement of coaching qualifications. The little dance I did at being offered a one year contract on €40,000 a week didn’t even tip them off.
And now, here I am. In the plush chair in the manager’s office. In the plush chair in the manager’s office banging my head against the rich, rich mahogany of the manager’s desk. This won’t do. This won’t do at all. It was bad enough when Coleman asked me about tactics.
“Do what Silva had you doing, you’ll be fine. And listen to Joao over there, he’ll tell you what’s what with the training”, I flap gesturing to my incredulous assistant.
“So… How will doing the same thing with the same players help us improve, boss?” He asked, all innocent like.
“Because I believe in you boys, that’s why.” I replied “And I love this club. Those things are important. Whilst I’d probably only mark myself a 13 out of 20 for tactical awareness and 12 for technical knowledge. I’m a solid 18 on motivation and man management. That, and my eye for a player… we’ll be fine. Now stop asking daft questions and… do what Joao says.”
But it won’t be fine… will it? Because I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. And this squad is terrible. And there’s only €8m in the kitty. And only €15k a week free in the wage budget, there’s a real possibility that I’m going into battle with Calvert Lewin as my hit man. Now from what I’ve seen of Dom, he’s great. He’s like a golden retriever, run all day, smile on his face, chasing butterflies… But he lacks a certain ruthlessness.
I pick up the phone and summon Brands. I hate Marcel Brands. His suits, his air of continental sophistication, how nice he smells. He thinks he’s better than me. He thinks he knows more about football than me. He’s right.
In his defence, he recognises this mob’s weaknesses with even more detached ruthlessness than myself and with only 14 days until we jet off for a friendly at CSKA Moscow, we need a plan. A plan is duly hatched. By the next afternoon, an alarmingly long list of deadwood has been drawn up and we’re bashing the phones to find homes for our strays…
There are no takers. Nobody wants this bunch of misfits, waifs and orphans. Never mind, in true Everton style, we go with what we have and I dispatch Brands and his team to scour Europe for a striker. I spend my afternoons in my plush chair in the manager’s office, rocking back and forth.
The trip to CSKA yields a surprising 4-0 victory, Morgan Schneiderlin and Richarlison sending us in two up at half time, whilst my patchwork strike force of Calvert-Lewin and, from the bench, Oumar Niasse give me food for thought in the striker department. Having found all of my predecessor’s notes on training and tactics in the desk, underneath the sherry bottles, I have slavishly copied his 4-2-3-1 formation and it has yielded us some bonafide optimism with seven days before our next hit out in a week’s time at Spartak Moscow. Until then a pre-season jaunt of funny hats and expensive call girls awaits.
The day before the Spartak game, I am roused from my slumber at 10am by the ringing of my hotel phone. Svetlana has already departed and my vodka-induced hangover is kicking in violently as I press the receiver to my ear… It’s the club secretary back at base. Brands wants my ok to farm out somebody called Tyias Browning on a season long loan to Hull. I vaguely recall him, but figure if he was any good he’d be sleeping off a hangover here. Done. My first transfer. I celebrate with two ibuprofen and a belt of vodka.
Our second pre-season game passes off as breezily as the first. My policy of rotating the strikers to see who is least rubbish backfires spectacularly as Cenk Tosun pops up on the end of a Bernard cross to nod home after 6 minutes before their centre back decides to replicate Cenk into his own goal. They pull one back in injury time but it’s another satisfactory performance.
There are two weeks before our next friendly out in Turkey. Time to drill the players and for me and my Dutch nemesis to ruthlessly pare away the deadwood. I hate JonJoe Kenny and his stupid face moping about the place every day so, using my newfound power of loaning players out, I palm him off to Leeds for the year. I make some conciliatory noises about his development, but in truth I’m just freeing up cash on the off chance I can afford to buy anybody. The window is alarmingly static.
Just as I’m shoving Kenny and his dejected face out of the door, Brands pops in. “I’ve got one” he announces, and the game is afoot. BK Hacken are not a noted producer of top talent and the 17 year old Kevin Ackermann is not a name to set the pulse racing, he won’t be anywhere near the first team for a start, but at €950k he’ll placate the fans lust for signings and that I’m looking after the future of the club. He’s a decent enough ball winning midfielder, if he applies himself he could be Premier League quality. Me and Marcel give the lad the hard sell, 5k a week and stick him in the U23s to learn his craft.
As I’m convinced Brands is just a nice suit and better personal hygiene ahead of me in the talent identification business, I decide to freelance it a little bit. Hunting through the dregs of Europe’s elite I chance upon Marcos Llorente, a slightly more developed version of Ackerman in Real Madrid’s youth team, I mean he must be good if he’s playing there, right? Right? I complete the deal in the Hotel in Turkey, away from Brands obsessive need to control all the transfers and beautiful hair… I’ll deal with the angry phone call when he rocks up at Finch Farm later. I’ve a game to manage.
We huff and we puff and we pound away at Konyaspor until finally a moment of magic from Richarlison, jinking into the space between fullback and centre back and lashing the ball across the keeper, gives us a 1-0 win. The only takeaway from a terrible game is that we are badly in need of a striker who knows where the goal is.
Our final friendly is against Real Madrid. The club who’s pocket’s my masterful talent identification has just robbed of the flower of their youth. It’s Leighton Baine’s testimonial and my first game at Goodison to boot. I strut into the stadium like a peacock and shake Zidane’s hand , reminiscing about my 28 England caps which he seems oddly non-plussed by and commiserating with him that I’ve picked his pocket with my €1.6m coup for Llorente. He must have remembered something funny somebody told him earlier because he chuckled a bit at that point.
The game itself passes by in a haze of ennui. Nobody wants to be here. Not Zidane and his crop of fancy dans, not the 22,467 blues who pay at the gate, not me and certainly not Dominic Calvert Lewin who spurns any chance he has of starting against Crystal Palace in 2 week’s time by consistently fluffing his lines. A 0-0 bore draw, enlivened only slightly by the novelty cheque Baines will depositing at the Cats Protection League in Maghull come the morning.
Back at Finch farm, I’ve got 2 weeks and €5m to erase the possibility that Oumar Niasse starts my first competitive game in charge. I can’t even loan anyone as I can’t afford their wages. I mark time by punting Beni Banigime and Fraser Hornby on loan to Reading and Inverness respectively. Ideally, I’d have liked to have put Hornby further away from my plans but geography isn’t always co-operative. To compound my misery Kurt Zouma collapses in training with a knee knack that will keep him out for two months. Bloody wonderful is that.
The day the transfer window closes, as I’m contemplating if 11am is too early to be breaking open the scotch and whether Josh Bowler going on loan to Eastleigh is going to get me on Sky Sports News, the phone rings. It’s Raphael Benitez. At first I think he just wants to discuss my glittering international career, but it’s soon clear that isn’t the case. He wants to give me €16.75m Euros. For the services of Cenk Tosun. I glimpse down to the training pitches and see the lad playing wall-y. He’s just missed the wall. I complete the call, do a victory dance on my desk then call security and ask them to have Tosun escorted from the premises. I celebrate by calling Juventus and offering them a very convenient €16.75m for the services of an 18 year old kid currently on loan at Hellas Verona.
He’s one to dream on this lad, strong, fast, great with the ball at his feet. A real modern complete forward and exactly what I’ve been looking for to spearhead my system. Moise Kean will be an Evertonian. By paying him the exact Є60k a week I just freed up with Tosun, my parlous grip on solvency is maintained and just three days before the season starts we have our talisman.
Brands gripes at me about a buyback clause as I pack Moise off to the Titanic to get settled. I tell him we’re with the big boys now and there’s no way a club like Everton get that kind of player without a buyback clause. Who does he think he is?
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