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 Football Manager Football Manager! Man’ing those Foot Mans! Figuring out tactics. Signing players. Winning international trophies with some of the most athletically skilled and highly paid sports stars in the world, or, looking after a bunch of carpenters and barmen who spend their teens, twenties, thirties (and sometimes even forties) competing for the highest accolade of least hungover goalscorer in the 10th tier of English football — “We’re footballing geniuses, superstars! compared to those 11th tier losers! Get your round in, lad!” Football Manager is often considered, by those who play it, the pinnacle of spreadsheet games. Except, of course, they don’t call it spreadsheet gaming. Many who play Football Manager are doing so on a work laptop, their only other computer a PS4 to pour money into FIFA microtransactions, and they may never look at another game in their lives. It’s a lifestyle for many players, not necessarily “gamers” but people who’ve clocked up thousands of hours in each yearly release, making their “I know better than professional coaches” dreams come true.  What is this LP? Like all true spreadsheet games, the story comes out of seeing the numbers you’re looking after interacting in the game engine. I will be telling the stats’ story. Players have stats, coaches have stats, the scouts finding you new players have stats, your physios have stats, you have stats. The stats can change, they can jump up, nosedive down (say, after an injury), the 16 year old with a stat that says he has the potential to be a world-beater might never develop because his attitude stat says he has the ambition and professionalism of a Monday morning. You look after these stats, then, once or twice a week, your looking-after-the-stats combine with your telling-the-stats-what-to-do in a football match, in various competitions rendered for your viewing where you can yell-instructions-at-those-stats and eventually see if these absolutely-useless-stats can pull out a win, although it’s more likely to be a loss or draw. Because, much like your useless-stats-players, you’re a useless-stats-manager, just without the excuse of having no free will or sentience. This is a narrative LP. I will be taking all those stats, looking after them (“Managing” the “Football”) putting them through the game’s engine, then using what pops out as the base for a story that will make sense of what those numbers are indicating.  Please excuse how Aine looks. FM has a problem where it randomly changes sliders on the create-a-character once you get in game. There'll be a proper picture of Aine in the first update. You will follow newly appointed manager, Aine Bruton, from her part time job working on a golf course, through the highs and lows of coaching Tunbridge Wells in the pits of the English footballing pyramid. Will she get Tunbridge Wells promoted? Will she stop her players from skipping training to go to the cinema with a bag of Maltesers and an ice-cream? Will she be fired after three games? Will her skeevy boss hang her out to dry after it turns out he bought the football club as a money laundering scam? All this will play out as I use my imagination to tell the story of grassroots football, where the concerns are less which wonderkid do we pay £100m for, and more, if we don’t find £100 the players aren’t getting paid.  Game/Save Details/Game Challenge This particular game features an expanded database. Sports Interactive (the developers of Football Manager) include leagues in the game down to a certain level. Modders and database editors create database edits that allow you manage in the leagues where even fielding a team might be a challenge. These are leagues with low pay, sometimes no pay, and with low and no pay as soon as anyone looks halfway competent they’ll be snatched up a team that can guarantee them things like changing rooms that get cleaned and showers that have hot running water. The league I will be managing is where the players who have real lives and jobs play. They train two afternoons a week, they take half days from their careers to play games, they convince themselves that they’re actually quite good and if they had the time as a sixteen year old to train a bit more often they’d be a superstar (or they just like kicking the ball around a pitch, and sometimes other people around the pitch, to counteract all the crisps they eat.) Aine Bruton will, maybe, be taking Tunbridge Wells all the way to the top, or, more likely, she’ll have to find a new pub to drink in because all her players seem to be staff in the place she went before. And now they’re bothering her about things like tactics, buying jerseys that fit them and don’t smell, and letting them start in a game. Let’s see how she fares, as we let’s play.
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Jan 8, 2021 16:38
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| # ? Apr 27, 2024 22:53 |
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The Pub Part of this narrative LP (at least after a few days) has been Áine Bruton going to the pub, talking football with the patrons, and generally getting pished. The patrons in the pub have been posters in the thread. When people respond to the thread, reacting “in voice” to what’s happening with Tunbridge Wells, I’ve integrated that into dialogue and conversations that happen in The Other Shoe. It’s a bit of interaction, and a bit of fun. If you want to be featured in these scenes in the pub (and I can’t guarantee it’ll happen) could you let me know when you first post. I’ll try and keep track of it. Could you also let me know if you don’t want to be featured. I’d appreciate it if you let me know what name you’d like me to use for you (anything unwieldy is liable to be changed, including unwieldy forum names.) Finally, please let me know what pronouns you’d like me to use for you. I have no issue with someone choosing a “they” pronoun, but it’s not what everyone wants, and I can’t know unless you tell me. Mrenda fucked around with this message at 16:00 on Jan 13, 2021 |
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Jan 8, 2021 16:38
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It Begins I had to leave my boozer. Everyone was looking at me. Everyone was talking. Up until last weekend I was an assistant greenkeeper on a run down golf course. It was a fine job. I was up just after six to cycle to the course by 7.30am and I was finished by 3pm. Then I could cycle to The Sheep’s Head, get a few drinks, sometimes more, in a place no-one bothered me. I’d have my fill, watch the racing, and cycle home with chips in my basket. I’d make sandwiches for the next morning and have another few beers before bed. I’d pass out. The boss on the course was some red faced fat man who spent his time entertaining in the clubhouse when he was back from living in his second home in Florida. I don’t know where he made his money. Certainly not from green fees because I never saw anyone play a round outside of the few sunny days we got and the school breaks when kids would play for a reduced price. Me and Teddy were sitting in the shed, it was pouring outside, when Mr. Red Faced walked in. “Sir!” Teddy said, as he stood. I stayed sitting. The boss looked at me, not too welcomingly, back at Teddy, growled at Teddy in the way decades of cigars and brandy make throats and lungs, then looked at me. This time with a smile on his face.  That’s me; Aine Bruton. “Business degree, right?” he said, still smiling perfectly straight, perfectly white, American style teeth at me from between fat porcine cheeks. “Eh...” “Head of clubs at University?!” “I don’t know—” “Father a footballer!” “He was a cu—” The fat man growled again at Teddy, although more a hack, then turned back to me. “How do you know—” I tried to say. He interrupted. “Your CV, and a memory. I remember everything! I know exactly who you are. I knew we were getting a star with big things in her future, but lacking confidence, when your CV came across my desk. Most championships from trampoline club, to table tennis, to football, to that senseless handling balls so-called Irish football while you were president.” “That was ten years—” “You’re going to do the same for me.” His voice had the crunching gravel of a quarry to it and he looked much like a dumptruck with a thick gold chain around its cab. “That football club, boss?” Teddy asked.  What I would soon learn was this was the club I was about to manage. The club my shady boss had bought, and decided, "We need a thirty-something year old washout who never used her business degree and instead cuts grass on a golf course to take charge of." “Signed and delivered. Got rid of the chaff, brought in some superstars. We’re sorted.” Teddy might as well have cheered so delighted was he looking. The fat boss man looked at me again. “£450.” “What?” “That’s £150 more than you make now.” “What’s going on?” “Fine, glad that’s sorted. You know I own The Sheep’s Head.” “You do?” I said. “Meet me there at 4pm. We’ll sign the papers. There’s a bottle of champagne waiting, to mark the occasion. Then to training.” And that’s how I learned my local boozer was owned by my gammon and gold boss, and how I was the new manager of Tunbridge Wells Football Club, in some Mickey Mouse division, all because I’d been the student rep in charge of sports for the most successful two years in my regional college’s sporting history. And I’d only signed up for that because there was an equestrian club who rode out of the local trainer’s yard giving me tips for the nearby track. I made a few quid from it, too. Which is why I knew, when I was shown into the football club buildings, into my office, and opening my desk, that this was all a giant tax scam, and I was the patsy.  With a wage budget of £311 a week, I was signing over £288 a week to just four players. The first thing the fat man did was make me sign the wage slips of the few star players he’d brought in. There was no evidence of accounts anywhere but I signed the wages for four semi-pro players and the entire team’s non-contract wages, and when I protested I was reminded I still needed my greenkeeping job during the day. “Make the best of it Aine,” he told me. “Top of the league is what I expect. Or near the top. We have the superstars. Good young lads. I know them well, or at least their Dads. Knew them since kids, really. Good lads,” he trailed off. “Good business,” he muttered. And then I was ushered out onto the training grounds to greet my team; most of whom were the young staff from The Sheep’s Head and their various hangers on. The serious players, unlike the young fellas in Aldi sweatpants and trainers, were decked out in the proper kit. “You’re the boss?” one of them asked. I didn’t want to say anything, but when Dim Trev, who’s only job in The Sheep’s Head seemed to be running to the bookies for people, stopped kicking the goalpost to clear mud off his shoes they all quietened and looked at me. “I guess I am.” I guess I had no choice. So I thought back to my Dad taking me to his clubs when I was a smallie and ran them through some drills. Watching them, lost in my own mind, it was only after ten or so minutes I heard my gammon boss’s voice penetrate through my foggy skull. He was screaming at the young fellas to look lively, and saying he’d throw two bottles of Glenmorangie behind the bar if they gave it their all. They all laughed while the guys earning somehow-dodgy money were doing sprints. That’s why I had to leave my boozer. They were all in on it. All those young fellas knew exactly what kind of pub it was, exactly who the owner was, exactly what was paying their wages (and the source of this I’m not sure myself) and I was the unwitting fool it was all being run through. I’d have to make the most of it. I’d not find another greenkeeping job if he blackballed me. I didn’t know what our “star players” were getting out of all this, even if they were only young lads, and I didn’t know precisely what type of scam this all was.  Sitting in my new pub, this was going through my head. What I was supposed to achieve, all with the help of a bunch of scam artists. All I knew was I was expected to bring this team, mostly of chancers sourced from my boss’s enterprises, with his few star players on big money, to the top of the league, or else face scrutiny of why, exactly, I was funneling unknown cash through an unknown bar to unknown players in a team run by me, an unknown manager, with nary a coaching qualification to my name. I was in at the deep end. So of course I had to find a new boozer where I could get some peace, one not run by a criminal boss, and my new spot didn’t even show the horse racing.
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Jan 8, 2021 16:45
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Come on the Wells! 
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Jan 8, 2021 18:15
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Wells this'll be interesting.
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Jan 8, 2021 22:40
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Rarity posted:Come on the Wells! Signups for Match Day Mascots still open, let's go lads!
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Jan 9, 2021 10:13
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What The Hell Do I Do Here? Growing up there were always adults who had keyrings with what seemed like an entire hotel’s worth of keys attached to them. I never knew what they were for. At the golf course our tractors started with a screwdriver, I didn’t drive, and my bike lock had one of those spinning dial mechanisms; the only key I had was for my apartment. Being appointed manager of Tunbridge Wells changed my keyring status. It now boasted keys to get into the stadium, the training grounds, the changing rooms, the equipment room, the locks to the shipping containers that held god knows what, the office section, and my office. I had made it to the big time and it seemed the big time was very jangly. I thought that was the end to my metallic growth, sitting, as I was, in my new manager’s office when a young scrap of a girl stuck her head in. I’d seen her cleaning glasses in The Sheep’s Head before, but this time she introduced herself. “Hi, I’m your assistant!” she said. “I have an assistant?” I asked. “I’m Maria. Maria Farrell. You should set up a password.” I looked at my computer and on a post-it stuck to the screen were the words, “P/W: football1234.” “I’m not full time, but I pop in every so often. I can get my uni work done in here. Oh, and here’s the keys to the filing cabinets.” So, then, my keyring grew. It was now weighing me down with responsibility and access to files that would have to be destroyed should the tax man raid us during some rainy morning training session. I held back from asking Maria where the shredder was. “Do you know anything, about, eh, what I do?” I asked. “I was just told to help you find some staff.” “Staff! Great!” Staff would mean people around me who actually knew something about anything football shaped. And it made perfect sense to tell Maria we could hire staff, not me, the actual manager of the club. “There’s a database with people looking for jobs. I was looking through it, there’s some impressive CVs on it!” she said.  All the staff, some who want clubs, some who clubs want, all, pretty much, out of our reach. So that’s what I did. I looked through a database for an assistant manager who might know the first thing about coaching a football team. There were guys who listed their qualifications, their skills, what they focused their career on, former managers moving down the ladder, coaches who wanted to move up. And every single one of them was far too qualified for us. Eventually I found someone who‘d just started coaching, with some history of playing, and rang his number. It was a testing-of-the-waters. I’d never hired anyone before let alone someone in football. He picked up after a few bleeps of his phone. “Hi, I’m calling from Tunbridge Wells, I saw you were looking for a football job?” “Where?” he asked. “Kent,” I said. “Tunbridge Wells.” “Never heard of you. What division are you in?” “Eh, I’m not quite sure.” I heard him laugh. It was one of those nasal snort laughs. “And who are you?” “I’m the manager here,” I said. “And you don’t know what division you’re in?”  I checked after, we were in the English Southern Counties East Premier Division, something I doubted I would remember. “I’m new,” I said. “You’re Davie’s bird aren’t you? This is a wind up. What’s you’re name? Allie? Allison. Well tell Davie to gently caress off!” Then he hung up. I tried a few more people, this time with a little more success actually knowing what division we were in, but they all wanted more wages than we could offer, if they’d even hear me out once I mentioned who we were.  Alexander Crossley, the only candidate who’d even give me the time of day. Eventually I did find one person and when I phoned him we got to the point of discussing reasonable wages. Very reasonable. I think he wanted £5 a week, which wouldn’t even cover petrol costs, so I wasn’t sure what I was getting into, meaning I had to clarify things. “You are ready to be an assistant manger, are you?” Which were some deft interviewing skills from me, but really I’d take anyone. “Assistant manger?” I could hear the awe in his voice. “Then I want, mmm, £65 a week.” I can’t quite recall, but I’m fairly certain I shouted, “DONE!” down the phone to him. I could hear the smile behind his tone as he simply asked for a few days to consider things.  I guess interest breeds interest, now it seemed every club wanted Alexander Crossley. We both hung up and I thought at least I’d have someone with half a clue around me. When I looked at his profile on the database again, after spinning in my chair a few times, his views had skyrocketed. It seemed within minutes of me making an offer he’d made it known to half the country. There were a load of clubs interested in him. Which made sense, he might be useless at judging players, but he had a history of working with and developing youth players. He’d be great, as I was thinking, taking temporary charge of our juniors while he also helped me. It was then Maria popped her head in again. “I heard you yell,” she said. “I thought I’d signed an assistant manger. But I guess not. No-one wants to work with us, and anyone who does wants wages we can’t afford. I’m not even sure what wages we can pay, but I don’t think an assistant manager should be making more than me.” I left it unsaid between us that any assistant manager would probably be more qualified than I was. “The players’ contracts and wage structures are in the filing cabinets. That might help.”  What we’re supposed to have when it comes to staff, with a very lonely, “1” for what we actually have. Me. Which meant I had to do some digging. Me and Maria pulled out page after page of printouts and spreadsheets. We were supposed to have a lot more staff than I realised; assistant managers, coaches, physios, scouts, and we had none.  It was turning out my assistant was far more efficient than me. As soon as I’d asked her she had the ads placed for the new staff, and emailed me confirmation of the search within minutes. “I don’t think I’ll be able to find people to fill all these roles?” I said. “I can place ads for them. We might get local guys who actually want to work here.” “Do that,” I said, and Maria headed out to her little cubbie outside my office. Which is when I spotted our player contracts.  To my horror it turned out we weren’t paying four players £300 of our £310 budget, but only two players a split of the £300! Looking through the contracts it seemed only two of our star players were actually signed to us. The other two were playing week to week. Reading the details it looked as though any club could snatch them with absolutely zero compensation to us. I didn’t need players being poached. What I needed were more players; players who took our games seriously, unlike the guys hauled out of the pub, the clubhouse and The Fat Man’s quarry. The Fat Man who’d predicted our top position entirely based on these “Superstars.” I didn’t know what he was up to, but I expected it was something to do with showing them off in our team, then moving them onto other teams where they’d earn better cash purely on their promise, i.e. their playing-status, with us. We were middle-men doing favours for his pals.  Wayne Jamieson, who the boss told me was one of our, “Star Players,” was a wanted man. I went back to the database and looked up our star players’ names, not knowing if they’d even be listed, but there they were. No indication of their skills or abilities, just their names, wages and contract status. And other teams were already checking them out. I’d gone from worrying about having no staff to help me, to maybe having no real players. I didn’t even have anyone to advise me on where I could find replacements; and not just the kind of temporary players the Fat Man pulled from his business-empire staff. Even then I didn’t have a wage budget to pay new players, new players who might, just, be loyal to me. Our first game was only a couple of weeks away, and I was already on a loser.
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Jan 9, 2021 13:38
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Maria seems like a competent young aspiring businesswoman. Perhaps she would be interested in a career in football 
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Jan 9, 2021 13:58
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Well, I know nothing about football, but you've got me intrigued. Reminds me of playing Eastside Hockey Manager, when the only job I could get was for the Finnish U20 team. Couldn't get the best players, job depended on the results of a 3 or 4 game tournament at a time, etc.
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Jan 9, 2021 17:16
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I'm enjoying this LP so far.
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Jan 10, 2021 03:20
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The Travelling Grifter Before I even began to think about tactics, I had to see what our players were made of.  The guys the Fat Man pulled from his businesses were all like this, capable of kicking a ball but no stand out abilities. Cookie-cutter messers sourced from who knows where? The guys the Fat Man pulled in from his grifts mostly seemed to be made of chicken wings and Monster. It didn’t matter where you put them on the pitch, they all played pretty similarly, i.e. they were the packet sauce you had on your badly cooked £1.29 sinew and skin. They did have preferences of what positions they’d like to be in, so I just went with that. Why upset someone by playing him where he doesn’t want to be played when you might get an extra ten percent out of him by indulging him? It was the “Superstars,” as the Fat Man put it, I needed to pay attention to. Two were strikers, two were midfielders (I would have liked a goalkeeper who didn’t play with his shoelaces undone, but I guess that’s a lot to expect when football boots don’t come with velcro.) But what most surprised me about our superstars was they weren’t just kids. Michael Jones and Simon McCormick were young, 21 and 18, but the other two lads? Grant English was 29 and Wayne Jamieson was bloody 39!  With the ball at his feet Wayne Jamieson wasn’t much better than the chancers from the pub, but he was constantly striving during training. I guess that played out in how they performed during training sessions. Jamieson wasn’t the most skilled, age will take a bit of ability away from you, but he had a solid head on his shoulders. It must have been the baby soft skin surrounding his beard that fooled me into thinking he was a young fella.  Grant English, at 29, was at his peak, the only problem was even at his peak he had some glaring holes in his game. Grant English could slot the ball into the net easily after sprinting behind a defence, but put any pressure on him and he tripped over his feet, he had absolutely no composure! Both English and Jamieson were on week-to-week contracts, Jamieson with interest from other sides, so if I wanted to keep them I’d have to tie them down, but how could I do that with no money left in my budget.  £190 a week for Michael Jones, plus appearance fee, plus goal bonus (although goals would be good.) Who negotiated all this!? There was also interest in the 21 year old, Michael Jones and he was tied to us, although we were paying a ridiculous £190 a week for him. Almost two thirds of our entire budget. The problem for me was I had no idea how much these guys should be getting? Was £190 an average wage for our league and our budget was just low, or was this another part of The Fat Man’s strange relationship with money? I thought about starting negotiations to keep English with us permanently but I was in two minds about it. If I started discussions, just to find out the attitude of our players, and it went south I might lose him faster than I anticipated; he’d be ready to leave. If he agreed then I’d be stuck with someone I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted. He was very fast on the pitch, and could head the ball almost exactly where you needed him to—a perfect tactic for hoofing it forward when you have useless players—but the lad could barely jump to get above the opposition. Everything had to be set up perfectly for him, especially as he wasn’t very tall. My contract negotiation problem was I couldn’t do anything until I had an idea of the state of our finances, or at least the basics of them. I knew I needed to dig into the accounts. I stepped outside my office door and looked to see Maria hunched over her laptop. “You busy?” I asked. “No,” she said. “I mean, ‘no with work,’ I’m deep in databases at the minute. My Open University course.” “Computer course?” “Kind of, Business Information Systems; business and computers.” “Do you think you can either business or computer your way into our money situation? Some spreadsheet or something?” “I’m afraid not,” she said. “It’s the accountant who deals with all that. I just hand out what he sends to us.” She slid open a drawer, pulled out a little black lockbox, and set it down in front of her. “And who have you been handing out money to?” “The players,” she said. “Petty cash. And money from the accountant for Mr. Laws.” I must have looked puzzled, he wasn’t one of our players, I wasn’t sure I’d ever met a Mr. Laws. “The boss?” she continued. “The chairman?” I didn’t mean to, but it was an instinctive response and the words, “Yes, The Fat Man...” snuck out of my mouth. “Aye! Peppa’s Dad. Daddy Pig,” she said. “Why are you giving him money?” I asked. “He says it’s for scouting,” she said. “He goes to look at players. The envelope is fairly thick when I hand it to him.” I nodded, went to walk to my office, then turned around again. “We’ve ads placed for scouts, don’t we?” I asked. “Yep, but no responses yet,” she said. “So this isn’t his money, it means we have a scouting budget?” Maria was already reaching for the phone on her desk with a sneaking smile on her face. “The accountant’s number is stored in here,” she said. And within minutes I was talking to a man with the most dull voice at Chorley, Chorley and Strunk that revealed at least one minor scam as part of the foundation of the whole football club.  A big chunk of cash set aside for our ‘Scouting Budget.’ I wasn’t certain I could do it, but after a rambling ten minutes from Mr. Strunk of the Dull Voice on financial responsibility in the Lower Leagues, season ticket sales, community outreach, and not over-stretching the core underlying cash flow of a bottom division club—which will always struggle for liquidity—I broached the subject; why exactly did we have such a large scouting budget. “To find players, of course,” he said, laughing at the foolishness of a first-time manager not even knowing about finding players. He had a simple enough answer when I asked him how we would pay these players we found if we had no wage budget. It began with a soft chuckle, then a few minutes explaining the double entry system in basic accounts, before finally he got to the point. “Our scouting budget is related to our transfer budget, which partially funds our wage budget. It’s very simple, one adds to the other, which takes from the next, especially if you make a transfer, not a cash transfer in the balance sheet,” he laughed again, an accounting joke I guess, “but a football transfer, where money comes in from another team for one of your players. I can’t believe you don’t know about transfers, you, the manger of Tunbridge Wells.” I could hear him sucking his teeth in disgust before he continued. “So we simply transfer a figure from the Scouting Budget into the Transfer Budget should you wish to buy a player from another team, but if you’re signing a free agent you can transfer your Transfer Budget to your Wage Budget.”  A bit of money from our Scouting Budget to our Transfer Budget. He rounded it off by saying Mr. Laws had been doing a fine job of scouting up until now, if the outgoings were anything to go by. But if I was to manage things he’d be happy to switch a few zeroes around for me, just as he did for Mr. Laws.  And that money from our Transfer Budget to our Wage Budget Not wanting to completely tap out Daddy Pig’s tax free travelling fund, and draw attention to me, I had Mr. Strunk transfer half the scouting budget to the transfer budget (we would still, sometimes, need to scout, I guessed.) Then money from the transfer budget to the wage budget. With that I had some wiggle room to pay players. It was getting on, and I’d spent most of the day pushing a lawnmower so I was tired, but now I had the ability to maybe sign our non-contract players, maybe bring in a few others instead, so all in all it was a good day’s work. I was going to wait until our next training session before broaching the idea of contracts with the two guys with some skill, but, most of all, I wanted to wait until we had some more coaches at the club who I could turn the football business over with before I made any permanent decisions. The question was would we have anyone come into coach with us before our first match; our first match which was rapidly approaching.
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Jan 10, 2021 13:01
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Kick the 39 year old to the curb imo, far too old to handle the rigours of seventh division semi-pro football
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Jan 10, 2021 13:24
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The Other Shoe – 6:11pm The Other Shoe was quiet, at 6pm. Bars with dark lighting except above the fag-burned pool table (when did the smoking ban come in?) weren’t the kind to attract the “Let’s go for one after work!” crowd, but it did do a beer and a shot for a reasonable price. Three of those combos must have been why I opened up about my new career, something I was making a habit of since I found my new haunt. “He’s not signed,” I rambled to the barman. “Just playing week to week. But other teams are interested in him. That must mean something!” “What about the other fella? He seems solid, good football head?”” the barman said, pouring himself a whiskey of his own. “The 29 year old or the 39 year old?” I asked. “The younger guy has a bit of skill, even if he does crumble when presented with a chance. It’s the 39 year old who’s a bit crap skills wise but can stay resolute when things aren’t going our way. That has to count for something?” The barman nodded, knocked back his whisky, then poured out some more; three shots; one for him, one for me, and the final one for the only other customer sitting at the bar. “It’s a toughie, isn’t it?” he said, as he placed the bottle down on the counter. “Get that down your neck, on the house!” I looked at the label on bottle. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and all that, but this one caught my attention. Especially as The Famous Grouse isn’t noted in Scotland for being a top shelf blended whisky, the opposite in fact, so I wasn’t quite sure what The Famous Mouse would be like. “What do you think, Rarity?” the barman said, placing the shot in front of young lass sitting just a few seats up. “Kick the 39 year old to the curb imo, far too old to handle the rigours of seventh division semi-pro football,” Rarity said. “Aye. I think you’re right. Except it’s ninth tier semi-pro football, maybe? I’m not sure. Not that it changes much.” We all raised our whiskies and with disgusted faces knocked them back. “Fine drink, that,” Rarity said. "Up the Wells!"
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Jan 10, 2021 15:08
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Jan 10, 2021 16:54
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As I understand it from other LPs, once a player hits 35 they basically start collapsing stats wise, so if their stats are crap already, now's the perfect time to move on.
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Jan 11, 2021 04:55
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The Biscuit Tin Me, staring at the calendar, with nothing really achieved in training, just six days to our first match, then two matches a week after that for more than a month. It was the Sunday evening before our first game and I was focused on the calendar. It was a strange feeling, looking at it. On the golf course we just pottered about. Sure, we had work to get done, cutting the greens six out of seven days was just how it went, at least during the summer, but other than the particulars of the weather and growth season we dealt with things as they came. With Tunbridge Wells we had a series of matches, two a week, stretching for over six weeks. The lads would be absolutely shagged, if they stuck with us, which was based on an assumption their ligaments didn’t snap from such a strenuous spell, and this was straight off a measly ten days of preparation before the league kicked off. With The Fat Man throwing me in at the deep end we’d really not had a pre-season. If he’d given me six weeks I would have had us playing friendlies out the wazoo, then given the players ten days off to recover before we headed into the twice-weekly matches, but it wasn’t to be. I was in pain thinking of the damage of no pre-season despite me not having to play in any of our upcoming games. I would only be crouched on the sideline—I didn’t know if we even had dugouts; our setup was less “semi-pro” and more “half-witted”—and I wasn’t to be the one running up and down the pitch. It was that pain-in-anticipation, sticking around in my joints—despite a few beers—that brought me to the biscuit tin in the cupboard high up in the kitchen. In the tin there was Deep Heat for my muscles, a selection of paracetamol for hangovers, and Ibuprofen and Solpadeine for when my body decided I was failing my maternal imperative. These were all helpful but they weren’t Teddy’s friends. Teddy’s “These Might Come In Handy!” pills were for his back, and from the few times I’d taken one I guessed the man saw a vet for his aches, not a doctor.  Our primary tactic. A bit of wing play with two forwards being hit low balls, and an instruction to get it forward. Fifteen minutes after chowing down a pill, with another beer, I was back looking at the tactical plans I’d drawn up as our main offensive drive. Whatever I’d done it was genius. Not quite, ‘lump it forward’ but definitely a bit of directness, low hit balls to our forwards’ feet—seeing as they were useless in the air—and high tempo, direct-ish counter-attack. I was in awe at my abilities; I wasn’t being completely negative; there was some ambition to it—seeing as we were predicted to do well in the league—and I was giving the team a chance to show their skills. That’s when Teddy’s elephant drugs hit. Or maybe when they hit fully. My stomach began to churn and I frantically flipped the page between our primary attack-focused system and our secondary defensive minded one.  The classic, ‘we have zero skill’ tactic or at least how I thought to recreate it. Both of our approaches were 442s, the most adventurous you should be with a bunch of plodders, but this one was even more direct than our main attacking one. Two lads standing up front, funt the ball up to them, hope for the best. And it was all hope, my lads could barely jump to compete. Still, the problem I was facing hadn’t changed with me horsing back tranquillisers; we had no pre-season; the team hadn’t played together; and it was six days before our first match with more matches coming thick and fast after. We were staring straight into failure.  The last minute friendly I proposed, off my tits at 9pm on a Sunday night. Being the acutely minded high person I was, I did what could only be done after a six pack and a loving-huge-pill at 9pm on a Sunday; I rang around smaller clubs seeing if we could arrange a friendly for the Wednesday, three days before our opening league match. Things being the way they were (i.e. it was a Sunday evening), none of the calls were answered, and none of the mobile numbers I dialled were set up with answering machines. Except for one.  What was going to be our first match! Waking the next morning I had to scrape gooey spit off my lips as soon as I peeled my face back from my couch, but, ever the professional, Maria had emailed me to say May & Baker had accepted our Friendly Proposal, and, with a groggy head, I was thankful no-one was mentioning what must have been a rather slurred phone call.  No Fancy Dan strength and conditioning training for us, all match preparation, all the time. We had two training sessions before the friendly, and I had the lads focus on the only thing they should focus on, preparing for matches. With only four sessions in the week I couldn’t be building up their fitness—I’d have to rely on what they naturally had—nor could I work on improving their skills. I had to bed them together and get them playing like a unit. The sessions before our friendly were laughable. We even had less players than we had the week before. Whatever novelty there was in The Fat Man telling his barmen to play for his team must have worn off. We wouldn’t even have enough players for our bench in the mid-week practice game against May and Baker. Nor, it seemed, would we have an assistant manager, coach or even a physio. All in all, the floating feeling of Teddy’s back pills was more appealing than what I was facing into, even with the nausea they brought on and the general failure of proprioception.  I must be far more astute than I give myself credit for, signing the papers it looks like I’d negotiated my Assistant Manager down to only fifty quid a week, for which I felt a little guilty. I was gearing up for my first match in charge later on in the day I’d taken off from the golf course, when, to my surprise, Alexander ‘The Absolute Legend’ Crossley pulled up to the training grounds, beeping his horn. He looked exactly like he did from his profile in the big football manager database. “You’re here just in time,” I said, my smile big and wide. “Why’s that?” he asked. “We have a match today.” “When we talked you said we’d be kicking off straight into the season, no time for friendlies.” “Yeah, back pills are a strange lot,” I said. Then, changing the subject, “At least it’ll be good to have some support in the dugout.” “So, what’s the team like?” he asked. I must have had a pained look on my face as he said that because he just grimaced and continued, with a little cough, “Well, I’m sorry about your dodgy back. Maybe we can get you a bucket?”  I didn’t get an upturned bucket to sit on in what seems like our Eastern-Bloc concrete stadium but I did get a strange sense of pride as my first match—even though a friendly—kicked off. As the game began the nerves I’d been feeling all day subsided. This seemed like exactly what I was meant to be doing.  A great through ball from our striker Grant English to The Fat Man’s Toomer. The lack of nerves could only last a few minutes, though, with our attacks turning into mistakes and May & Baker coming at us; constantly at us. But when Grant English put a great through ball into the channel in front of one of The Fat Man’s lads, Toomer, I felt my chest fill with relief. My team actually had some ability, even if Toomer did hit it straight at the keeper. With twenty minutes gone we were finally showing something steady as Simon McCormick, one of our proper players, won the ball in the middle of the park, played it onto Michael Jones running forward, who then centred it for Grant English splitting the defenders. It was my ‘star players’ coming together, even if it ended with another straight-to-the-keeper shot; we were showing a bit of cohesion.  Our first goal and I had a relieved smile on my face. With 37 minutes gone we’d been dominating for the past twenty and were on for another attack. Wayne Jamieson, who hadn’t been playing great, sent the ball to the wing and Brougham put the ball crossways over the defenders to Michael Jones, our £190 earner, who placed it calmly past the reaching keeper and into the net. It was our first goal and my smile was as calm as the touch from Jones that finished the move off. We made it to the break one-nil up which made half time a simple affair; I just stood in the centre of the changing room and said a few simple words before leaving the players to their own thoughts, “I’m very pleased with your performance.” — I wasn’t, not fully, there was a lot of room for improvement, but they needed some confidence and I was, at the least, quite relieved at having scored. Simon McCormick, our young 18 year old midfielder bagged another in the second half, right on the hour mark, after English laid a square ball onto his toes for an easy tap in, but it was only ten minutes later when we conceded to a nicely struck free kick: our goalkeeper’s untied shoelaces proving a problem outside of training.  A deft touch from Grant English saw us 3-1 up coming to the end of the game. I was shaping up for a nervy last stretch until Grant English went clear ahead, coming up in front the keeper and subtly chipping him for us to be 3-1 up with ten minutes to go.  The final score in my first match, 4-2 to Tunbridge Wells. With three minutes left one of The Fat Man’s strikers scored a fourth, before we left a second in with one minute of normal time left, but it didn’t bother me a jot. I realised I hadn’t thought about money, scams or tax evasion. I had no concerns over contracts, wage budgets or releasing players all through the lead up to the match. Right up to the final whistle I’d been consumed by the football and never before had I been as focused on anything so steadfastly.  The player and match review I’d be facing when I next hit the office, but no matter, I had won my first ever game as a manager. Match reviews, player performancess and, probably, contract renewals awaited me the next day, but that night I slept soundly, and I didn’t even think of reaching for the biscuit tin.
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Jan 11, 2021 13:14
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Not sure adding an extra game schedule is gonna help with the lads' lack of fitness, boss 
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Jan 11, 2021 13:29
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Up the loving Wells
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Jan 11, 2021 20:31
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Roaring Through Paperwork Waking after our 4-2 friendly win against May and Baker, my first match in charge, I was feeling a little unwell. I’d slept soundly, nodding off quickly—unlike my usual attempts—but I figured the morning after’s ill-ease must have been the natural high’s resultant come down. It didn’t help that in the lead up to and after the match I was so energised I didn’t eat or drink, not even a stout—rich in iron.  How I’d written up the performance of my players, with help from my assistant manager. And there was a lot to dwell on. I’d kept notes on the game, and in conjunction with my newly signed assistant manager, Alexander Crossley, I had some idea of the effectiveness and contribution the players made over the entirety of the match. Most striking was the performance of some of The Fat Man’s guys; the lads who’d only ever been messing about in football and spent training joking around.  The game was almost over, but James Cook’s goal certainly put a nice finish on the scoreline. James Cook had scored a goal, even if the match was already decided, and I recalled from his training he was working that little bit harder than some of the other guys.  Both me and Alexander agreed Graham Rihoy had tied together our defence particularly well. Similarly, Graham Rihoy had put in a fine shift; the bedrock of our defensive setup; a defence made entirely of The Fat Man’s messers. These two lads, despite being drafted in from random jobs around the The Fat Man’s nefarious concerns, were making me think. Was it worthwhile offering them a contract? They hadn’t taken football too seriously before, but after their showing in our first match, and feeling the excitement of giving your all in competition, they might kick on with a bit of faith and some money behind them.  Player of the Match—with a goal to his name against May and Baker—Grant English Before any of that happened I realised I needed to tie down Grant English who’d put in a Player of the Match performance. It was my first venture into negotiating with a player, with my newly expanded wage budget, and I didn’t know what was in store for me. If English demanded a high sum all the room I had for improvements elsewhere disappeared in an instant. Calling Grant into my office I couldn’t tell if he knew what was coming; if he thought I was just calling him aside to praise his performance, or if he figured after scoring in our first game a contract was on the cards.  The opening negotiations with Grant English, with me promising him he’d be a regular starter in my team. I began, trying to show confidence, and came straight out with my proposal. I didn’t know if it was more than he was expecting, if I could have promised less and he’d have been as happy, but I was direct, to the point, and told him straight up, “I’d like you to be a regular starter for us.” And, that, at least, drew a positive response. Then it was onto the difficult part, the money. Grant English suggested a non-contract, appearance-fee based wage structure, but I knew I needed to tie him down for at least a year. A non-contract agreement meant he could be snatched up by anyone else, and although I wouldn’t stop him from retiring if his real life got busy, a semi-pro contract meant he’d probably take longer to throw in the towel if things got tough.  What I suggested to English, which was more-or-less what he wanted, but in the form of a permanent deal. I suggested more-or-less the same appearance and goal bonus terms as he wanted with his non-contract deal but in a part time agreement. He’d be tied down for a year and no club would be able to poach him, at least not without forking out.  Grant English felt the terms I’d offered were acceptable and wanted a few days to consider things. After a few seconds to consider, as my heart pounded, he told me he was happy with what I offered, but, again, like Crossley when I offered him a contract, English asked for a few days to see if this was what he really wanted. With the negotiation going well I decided to strike while the iron was hot, i.e. in a head rush and without considering things, and prepared myself to tie down both Graham Rihoy and James Cook. I offered The Fat Lad’s guys—Rihoy and Cook—contracts but they were hesitant about things. They’d never considered a career in football, part time or not. They just wanted to play for their health (which was a little better than the other lads who just wanted to play for free pints.)  The Amateur Contract both Rihoy and Cook temporarily agreed to. Rihoy and Cook both felt amateur contracts were what they needed for the moment. It meant they were taking things a bit more seriously, but they weren’t ready to fully commit just yet. What this allowed was time for me to see how they’d perform on the pitch, and whether they’d keep their friendly game performance levels through the opening of the season, demanding a more ironclad deal. My concern was it also meant they were officially registered; other teams might become interested, and I doubted our contract was enough to hold them tight if someone came at them with a big wedge.  Jamieson’s age really showed in our friendly, however sound a footballing head he had on his shoulders. While spending two days dealing with all the paperwork a problem kept creeping up on me. Wayne Jamieson, our ageing midfielder, had put in a dire performance in the friendly. That wouldn’t normally concern me, players can have bad matches, but first impressions count. A spell in the subs might urge him on a bit but we had no midfielders to replace Jamieson if I benched him. However, there was an alternative. During all our squad sessions the younger teams had been training, much the same as us, in another half of the field; and I’d been keeping on an eye on them. With me offering contracts to some of our temporary players I was hoping a future superstar would come out of our youth squads, and midfield was my primary concern, especially with no scouts to find replacements. The problem was no-one was showing any real skill in those positions in the youth teams.  The bookies did not have confidence in us putting in an away performance. This, again, would all have been fine if I’d had a pre-season and time to put together a team, but not only was our first league match the next day, it was an opening day away game, and the bookies had made our opposition clear favourites to win.  The season preview from the press, predicting us to come third or fourth, and our opening day opposition, Lordswood, to be trailing behind us by a good few places. The bookies predicting a loss for us came as somewhat a surprise. I’d already accepted we’d be away for our opener, and when I looked at what the press had put together for a season preview I knew it’d be a tight game, but I didn’t think we’d be assumed-losers against a team predicted to come beneath us, even with them having home advantage.  Staring at our tactics of what we were supposed to do when the chaos began. With twenty-four hours to go I’d been given another day off from the golf course by Teddy, who was fully behind The Fat Man’s football endeavours, but sitting in my office, with no training that day, no contracts to be negotiated or paperwork to fill out I was feeling empty. I didn’t know if I wanted something disastrous to happen in the lead up to our game, just to occupy me, but what I did decide was that we’d have to close up shop. We’d begin the game with our defensive approach, hope for the best, and without a doctor or physio to patch up the players, or an analyst telling me how at-risk-of-injury they were, I had to hope that not only would we come away with a result, but also with a team left intact at the end of the match. As I sat pouring over teamsheets and tactical plans at my desk I knew the offices, changing rooms and the entire training ground was empty but I could still hear a loudness in my ears. It wasn’t tinnitus, it was anxiety, and it was growing and growing as the day wore on and I became more and more tired. It was a building pressure from an absence of occupation and ample time to dwell on all the bad that could happen. Most of all it was the roar of a season of football, my first ever, about to be unleashed on my players, Tunbridge Wells football club, and me, a first time football manager facing into her first competitive match.
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Jan 12, 2021 09:19
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Perhaps Jamieson can be  persuaded to retire from active football for a coaching role
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Jan 12, 2021 09:27
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Rarity posted:Perhaps Jamieson can be Or we can take him out behind the nackers yard.
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Jan 12, 2021 10:04
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Glad to make it just in time for the first game of the regular season. Up the Wells!
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Jan 12, 2021 14:19
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I'm sure you can't keep it up for every match, but I like the narrative-with-image style you used for that one.
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Jan 12, 2021 21:50
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Sick as a Dog The evening before our game against Lordswood I went to The Other Shoe for one to settle me; there I ran into the barman’s pal, Rarity. She’d been thinking about our Jamieson situation and asked me how it was going with him. “Not too great,” I said. “He had a poor performance in our friendly, but, still, there’s a lot of knowledge in that ol’ noggin of his.”  Jamieson, at 39, was thinking about the long term, and had some plans to move into the backroom with a notion to end up in Youth Development. “Perhaps Jamieson can be,” she made a pair of those airquotes at this, “'persuaded,' to retire from active football for a coaching role.” From the corner of the bar came another voice, one sharing what I’d guess would be the sentiment of many of our fans should Jamieson keep playing as he did in the previous game, “Or we can take him out behind the nackers yard,” it said. But we were a bottom division club, and community values, whatever The Fat Man did for his money, had to be part of a setup like ours. Building our players up for a future beyond kicking a ball should be something we did. “I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “He mentioned something about going into Youth Development, and I could, maybe, send him on a coaching course to get his coaching badges. The problem is I don’t have any badges myself! I was hoping to bring in some more staff in the short term, to spread the load, and then do a few seminars for myself.” I paused, for a second, and thought on the state of our team, “And even then we don’t have enough players to do without him if he’s busy with coaching.” Rarity nodded. Her thoughts seemed to be echoing my own thinking, at least on a coaching future for Jamieson.  An email I’d probably be sending, putting Wayne Jamieson on a coaching course, once we’d signed a replacement and I had my own qualifications under my belt. “It’s something to think about in a few weeks,” I said. “But you’re right! And... I just wanted to say thanks for all the support... It’s good to see a friendly face in here after a day managing football.” Rarity smiled in acknowledgement. “And I was wondering, have you ever had a Fat Frog?” “What’s that?” Rarity asked. “I think, now, and it’s been almost fifteen years since I had one, but I think it’s a Bacardi Breezer, a Smirnoff Ice, and a Blue WKD all mixed together. And it comes to about two pints, so you have to share it. And I want to thank you for having my back.” One Fat Frog turned into many, including a few rounds for me, Rarity and the other Wells fan, who introduced themselves as ‘tithin’ but the drinks must have been deserved, because waking the next morning, and cycling to the training grounds to get a lift with Maria to the game I had no hint of a hangover.  The team for the Lordswood match. The team to face Lordswood picked itself. I’d start all our players with contracts, except for Cook, who could come on if we needed some impact. The rest was made up of The Fat Man’s lads, which was the entire squad, where we didn’t even have enough players to fill out our sub allocation.  What could you say to a bunch of amateurs before the first match of a season? In the changing room I looked every player in the eye, told them to give it their all, then, standing in the middle of the room, with most of them staring at me, I offered a final a bit of advice, “Just enjoy yourselves, lads.” It didn’t seem to register for most of them, but Graham Rihoy did relax. He was looking nervous before but the effects of my words was he was now eager for the game. Then, it was a quick walk out to the dugout, and a long wait for the referee to ready himself. I sat in my appointed manager’s spot, and tried to calm myself in what seemed like a complete void, but unlike Rihoy there was no-one to soothe my nerves. To settle myself by sharing in the excitement of the crowd, in the few minutes while the ref checked everything was ready to go, I took a quick look at the social media posts Maria had collected from the fans. It was all anticipation for a new season with a new owner and a new manager.  Lilly Whalley with some words of encouragement, or, maybe not. “‘Looking forward to an engrossing match?’ That’s a good sign, isn’t it?” Maria asked. “Maybe. She could be a bloody sarcastic goon as well,” I said. Maria looked up around the stadium, with about 130 people in it, and started picking out each of the thirty travelling Wells fans there. “I wonder which one Lilly Whalley is?” she said. As Maria pointed out someone in the stands decked out in the full Tunbridge Wells kit the match kicked off and who was being facetious or not didn’t matter. Our season had begun.  A goal down, and a disastrous start. I was still finding my bearings as we gave away a free kick ten yards or so outside our area. From the free the penalty box is an absolute scrum, with no-one picking up Lordswood’s Harley, and with not even five minutes gone we go a goal down. It’s too early to start making changes, but it feels like a gut punch before I even have time to appreciate my first few minutes as a real football manager.  Toomer scores, but it’s ruled out for offside. The next ten minutes have a bit of back and forth, with it mostly being Lordswood in charge, but our few away fans begin to shout as Spice puts a ball in for Toomer who has some space. He hits it cleanly, with the goalkeeper diving to no avail, and it’s right in the back of the net, but I already knew it wouldn’t count. Toomer went before the defender and was offside.  English makes his contract worthwhile, scoring an equaliser on 32 minutes. With 32 minutes gone, Spice, who put the cross in for Toomer in the disallowed goal, is hanging out on the wing with the ball. Grant English is between two defenders and I scream at Spice to put the ball in to him. Instead he futzes around with some going-nowhere passes, before the ball eventually lands at Toomer’s feet. Grant English takes a great diagonal off his defender in the box, and Toomer spots him, puts the ball behind, and English makes his new contract worthwhile by scoring an equaliser to make it one-all.  43 minutes gone and we’re down again. 2-1 to Lordswood. I’m just getting ready for half time, when, again, there’s a mess in our defence. No-one is doing any closing down and Anderton gets free. He puts a ball over our backline, and with no-one running with him Coxall has the space for an easy volley to make my half-time talk a lot angrier with us 2-1 down.  Disaster, it’s an injury. With just forty seconds left in the half a disaster happens. Jones suffers an injury and we have to make do with no physios on staff. I bring Cook on for the final few seconds left before the break but looking at Jones struggling as he walks down the tunnel to the changing rooms, after he was carried off the pitch, he seems absolutely distraught. All I can think of is maybe if we had an expert on staff I’d have spotted this earlier, seen the warning signs, but I tell myself it’s just the game, you can’t account for the opposition putting pressure on a lad. All I can hope for now is that Maria’s ads get responded to quickly, and we get him back on the road to recovery with some proper care, but for the meantime I’m just eager for the half time whistle; the team looks wrecked.  Our first half troubles aren’t over. In the last play of the first 45 minutes (or more 50 minutes) we go down 3-1. But this isn’t the end of our problems. With the injury and subsequent substitution there’s over five minutes of extra time. I’m screaming at the ref to blow it up, all the while the home fans jeer me as Lordswood attack, but the ref lets play run on and on, and with the final kick of the half Lordswood score another goal. We’re 3-1 down, and I know I have to change up our tactics, to set us up more attacking, to stand a chance in the second half, but I’m already feeling sick as a dog watching this—and I struggle to keep my hope from deserting me.  With the first significant play of the second half we get one back. The tactical changes don’t seem to do much, but with almost eight minutes of nothing the first significant play of the second half is ours. A cross goes into English who, smartly, spots Cook free just a few metres back in the ball’s direction. English nods the ball down to Cook, who rockets the ball into the goal to bring us back within a score. It’s 3-2 and I don’t know if a comeback is on or we’re just making the scoreline look respectable, but I have to dream.  WE’RE DRAWING! Not even seven minutes later McCormick sends a ball over the defence, right to Spice, who brings us level. We’re drawing 3-3 with thirty minutes left. Is it too much to hope for? To go from two down to winning? We just need one snatched goal and to not let them back in—but that’s a huge ask.  Toomer looking only delighted with himself. In the space of eleven minutes we’ve scored three goals! After what’s some dire play down the left wing, albeit started by a great tackle from Brougham to stop a Lordswood attack, Brougham receives the ball again to complete what he began by sending the dodgiest looking short lobbed ball right onto Toomer’s bonce where Toomer magically nods it across the goal, and beyond the keeper. Their goalie stood no chance with a header like that! And now, for the first time, we’re ahead—it’s 3-4 to us. The question is can we hold on with Lordswood having proven they can score with ease?  79 minutes gone and we score a superb free kick. With ten minutes left in the match, despite my nerves, I’m starting to believe. And I believe even more when on 79 minutes we secure a free kick straight in front of the Lordswood goal and Toomer bags another, sending a perfect ball curving around the wall to score a set piece deserving of the top flight. We’re 3-5 up after being 3-1 down at half time! I can’t believe what I’m seeing from my team who look absolutely shattered with the effort they’ve put in.  We win our first game 3-6 despite suffering a kicking in the final minutes of the first half. At the end of the match I was shocked, stuck firm in my seat. We’d won 3-6 after being down 3-1 at half time. I could barely move, but hearing the lads celebrating in the changing room I levered myself out of my chair, walked down the tunnel and into my team, and with all eyes on me told them, with absolute belief, "You did superbly to come back like that!" They all looked thrilled, talking about the next match, even. And just as things began to settle down, from outside the window a lone Tunbridge fan, obviously making use of the lower league’s allowance to serve beer screamed, “UP THE loving WELLS!” and the players, after a moment of quiet consideration, all broke out in a second round of mad celebration. It was nothing less than they deserved.
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Jan 13, 2021 13:43
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Just a couple of things to check in on after our first competitive season game... Match Screenshots We’ve played two matches so far, and I’ve handled the screenshots in two different ways. It’s difficult to get the sight of the ball in the back of the net while also showing some of where the players were and how the goal was setup, so that’s out, but I’ve tried screenshots differently in each match post. The first way is where I take a snip of the small part of the screen, and show the “action.” The second is where I take a screenshot of all the pitch the game is showing me, including the graphics the game overlays, hoping to give some idea of how the team is arranged and where balls are coming from and going to, while showing some of Football Manager’s graphical touches. My preference, at this point (and I could still change things up later,) is for the tighter action shots, they’re a bit more dramatic, but I’ll leave it to up to you. Would you prefer the tighter, dramatic action shot, or the wider game-banners and players-on-the-pitch screenshot for important moments? The Pub/The Other Shoe So far I’ve featured two posters in my regular trips to the pub, taking their posts and integrating them into the narrative. I know Rarity, so pronouns weren’t a problem for her. I don’t know tithin, so I had to refer to their “voice” rather than them themselves, and I didn’t know their pronouns (so, as you can see, “Theys” abound.) Also, I’ve been using forum names for these people. If you have a really unwieldy name I reserve the right to change it up (along with changing the quote a bit for the narrative and putting in some other dialogue.) If you have a preference for a name you’d like to be used, and pronouns you’d like to be used, in The Other Shoe/The Pub scenes, could you make it known at least once when you post? Also, if you’d not like to be featured let me know that too. I will, in time honoured goon tradition, try and keep a GoonsInFootballPubs.ods spreadsheet. I can’t guarantee you’ll be featured, nor can I guarantee what you say won’t be changed or added to a bit. Most of all, thanks for reading along so far. It’s been a blast.
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Jan 13, 2021 13:59
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Oh jesus christ, what did I drink last night? My mouth tastes like a dumpster truck rolled through it. Anyway, big up the Wells for a stunning comeback. Re: screenshots I preferred the way you did it in the first update. Also I'd suggest putting the screenshots after the paragraphs rather than before. It's a bit disruptive with them in front cause it's like 'oh you scored' and then you jump back to hear about how you scored.
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Jan 13, 2021 14:10
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Hell yeah. I've never been much of a Football Manager fan, or even really much of a football fan, but for whatever reason I've come to love Football Manager LPs so I'm absolutely along for all this. I think action shots are gonna be broadly preferable to the wide shots, although I reckon there's gonna be times and places for both, like, we needn't banish either of them entirely. I have a different request though; Mrenda posted:
I think the ordering of screenshot - caption - writeup isn't optimal? I don't know maybe this is just me but I feel as though the picture should come after the summary? I think? I'unno. e:f;b on this I guess.
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Jan 13, 2021 14:19
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The screenshot coming before is for a few reasons. First off, it follows what newspapers/online articles do. Secondly, if someone is only skimming the post they can see what the important element is, then choose to read about it if they want. Finally, it's to avoid having two screenshots in a row with little text between them. I can change things up so the match screenshots come after the text, that's not an issue. Would you want the same for the more "manager" screenshots? When I'm signing players, or discussing tactics, i.e. not the during-match screenshots? So would you want me to describe, say, negotiating with a player, then show the screenshot after? (So I can do the screenshots "after" for just the match, or the match and the more textual/menu-based parts of the game.)
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Jan 13, 2021 14:27
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Up the Wells! Brilliant comeback, even if it's a shame what happened to Jones. Star player and he slams right into the dirt. English and Toomer looking pretty solid, though most of the lads did good. I think the tighter action shots made it a little more exciting, so my vote's for that. Jossar and he/him are fine, hopefully shouldn't be too weird at the pub.
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Jan 13, 2021 14:44
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Mrenda posted:The screenshot coming before is for a few reasons. First off, it follows what newspapers/online articles do. Secondly, if someone is only skimming the post they can see what the important element is, then choose to read about it if they want. Finally, it's to avoid having two screenshots in a row with little text between them. Yeah I get where you're coming from. Maybe try one update with all screenshots after and we can see how it feels for the non-match bits?
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Jan 13, 2021 14:59
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Great comeback! Seems like the attacking tactics might suit this team better than trying to defend.
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Jan 13, 2021 15:13
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Entertaining LP! I’m on my phone so screenshots don’t mean much to me, I’m afraid. I’m here for the smooth prose.
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Jan 13, 2021 15:46
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*stumbles out of the pub, screaming at the starry sky* U wanna go mate!? DO. YOU. WANNA. GO!? NO Im not going home this is about PRIDE! loving hell where's a cab when you need one...
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Jan 13, 2021 17:18
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Defence is definitely a priority when you’re in a position to get new players
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Jan 13, 2021 20:28
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All Action the Morning After There were a few drinks for me and the team in The Sheep’s Head after our win, but I gave up on the night once it looked like the boyos were in for the long haul with The Fat Man firing out tequilas. I didn’t want to invade their space, and, anyway, a second night tearing it up wasn’t for me now I was heading into my mid-thirties. Fresh-headed, unlike my team, I guessed, I walked to the training grounds the next morning to pick up my bicycle. Maria had given me a lift to the pub the evening before and my hybrid was still locked against a fence next to the shipping containers in the grounds. Arriving, early enough, I was shocked to see both Graham Rihoy and James Cook doing sprints across the width of the pitch. I left them at it for a few minutes, just watching in stunned silence, when Cook spotted me having a sneaky fag while gawping at them. They both jogged up to me. “How’d we do yesterday, boss?” Cook asked, as he wiped some sweat from his forehead. “We won 3-6,” I said. “You were there. You picked up the Player of the Match award!”  James Cook, with two goals and a deserved Player of the Match award, even after only playing one half. “I mean in those reviews you keep of us?” “Why do you want to know that?” I asked. Neither Rihoy or Cook had shown this type of interest before. Rihoy started to fidget until Cook tapped him on the arm to show him some stretches to keep warm as they talked to me. After a few seconds Rihoy began to mirror him. Rihoy stretched out his quads, looked up at me from the bottom of a dip and said, “I wasn’t the best, I know that. I just want to prove myself. This is all so new for me.” “You were solid. A good performance.” I could see him grimace as he worked out a little tightness from his efforts, but I continued, “The whole team was solid, and it showed something real to fight back like you did.”  The whole team, apart from Jones, who came off injured during our bad first half, had put in decent, or at least average efforts on the pitch. Both Cook and Rihoy nodded. “We’ve never done anything like this,” Cook said. “I’ve never had anyone take me seriously when it came to kicking a ball. Mr. Laws just hands out free stuff, but signing that amateur contract showed me someone believed.” “You did good. You all did. But we need to keep it up, and manage that every match. It won’t always be possible, you’ll have downs as well as ups, but that’s the game,” I said. Both Rihoy and Cook seemed to accept this, then smiled at me, “Thanks for the advice boss,” Cook said. And Rihoy continued, “I couldn’t have imagined myself doing this at the beginning of the summer. It’s like nothing I’ve done before.” And with that they went back to their Sunday morning session of self imposed, extra training. Wheeling my bike through the car park, as Rihoy and Cook worked on their heading, nodding a ball back and forth, I texted my assistant manager and asked if he was free for breakfast. Within an hour I was locking up my little blue hunk of hill-pain next to Tunbridge Wells finest brunch spot, filled with tourists. Me and Alexander were given a spot next to the toilets, at our own request, to have a bit of quiet to discuss things. “It seems those amateur contracts make a huge difference,” I said to Alexander. “Yeah, both lads that’ve been put on them seem to be taking things more seriously. Their performances might not be better, but they’re lasting out the match with a bit more energy.” Alexander took a bite of his yoghurt and fruit, making me feel bad, for a split second, about my bacon sandwich. “It’s like they’re better rested the night before, better fuelled, just talking it all more seriously,” I said. “You’re thinking about offering those contracts to a few more players, aren’t you?” he asked. “Brougham’s done well in both matches,” I said, and I paused to find the right way to say what I was going to say, “But I think he’s playing above himself. He’s not shown much skill, or anything really standout in ability.”  An analysis of Mikey Brougham’s technicals, which were a bit below average for most of the team, despite his good performances. “I think he’s one to watch,” Crossley said. “What about Spice?” I watched Alexander put a giant strawberry in his mouth and began to think about Prosecco but forced my thoughts back on football. “He’s decent, even in his skills, but with one good match and one only alright match I think it’s a case of whether we sign him for that boost in attitude now, or wait to see how he continues to shape up.”  Spice had OK skills, a little above average for our casual players, but with a 6.7 and then a 7.4 in our ratings, for the two matches so far, I was in two minds about signing him. “Toomer is the one we need to snatch up,” Crossley said. “He’s the best of the lads we’ve roped into play for us.” “Yeah, he’s a quality player. Nothing stand-out; just that bit better. Definitely one to have with us for the long haul.”  Toomer’s skills, the pick of the guys who were along for the ride with us, especially after that free kick he scored against Lordswood. Crossley put his spoon back in the bowl after scraping out and eating the last of his yoghurt, catching a stray blueberry between his fingers and munching down on it. “I’ll leave it to you to deal with Spice, but I’m guessing you’ll be talking to Toomer soon enough.” “Absolutely. And Spice is the one I’ll ruminate on.” “How’s Jones?” Alexander asked, a look of real concern coming over his face. “I’m not sure. We brought him to his local GP. They’re not an expert on sports injuries, or what’s needed in competitive games, and they've referred him to a local physio for sprained ankle ligaments, but the jobbing physio mostly deals with occupational stuff and people doing their back in trying yoga off youtube.” “It happens,” Alexander said. I wasn't sure if he was referring to youtube yoga or professional footballers getting injured. “They reckon he’s out anywhere from three to six weeks. I just have to hope our ads for medical staff get answered soon.”  The GP’s report on Michael Jones’s sprained ankle ligaments. They couldn’t put an exact timeframe on his return which could be anywhere from three to six weeks. Alexander nodded, then, as he headed off he put in an order for a coffee for me at the counter and I texted Toomer to see if he’d come on board with us. Before the plates had been cleared away, or my coffee had arrived, Toomer was back to me on Whatsapp. “What took so long?” he asked. “I’ve been waiting for this since last night!”  Toomer’s excited head appearing in Whatsapp as he texted me back to confirm he’d sign with us. From the café I headed back to the training grounds, letting myself into the office, to prepare the contract for Toomer. I checked in on my emails, and, waiting for me, arriving right after our come-back win over Lordswood, were a few messages from players offering their services; word must have gotten out that we were a team to be with, at least based on one match.  Players messaging me asking me to consider signing them for our team. I’d had four players come to me, David Hodges, John Smith, Geoff Cairns, and Ben McGarry. I offered trials to all of them, so at the least I’d see what they were about in training, even if we couldn’t play them in games. They all agreed to spend two weeks with us.  John Smith accepts the deal to come on trial with us for two weeks. The big problem with that was how The Fat Man wanted the club set up. He’d instructed me to sign players that could last with us for a few years, guys at or under the age of 23, and apart from John Smith, the other trialists were all in their thirties. Depending on how they performed they might be able to make a short term difference for us—even ageing players left go from more competitive leagues could do well at our level with their experience and natural ability—and we desperately needed players, but was it worth going against the very nature of the club, how it was setting itself up for the future, just for some short term success? It might piss off The Fat Man, and I was certain he’d have no bones about replacing me if I stood against his demands. Whatever happened I’d at least see how they were in training, which could take a couple of weeks to fully understand how they’d fit in. By then I was in dedicated manager mode, despite it being two-thirty on a Sunday afternoon, and my mind turned to our failure in the first half the previous day. Maybe the bookies’ odds were just wrong, our players were better and I shouldn’t have told them to be so cautious from the off, but whatever the rights and wrongs of a careful approach there would definitely be games where we’d need to defend; either from kick off or to close out a match. I ran scenarios over and over in my thoughts, contemplating more traditional setups versus where I maybe had the team more expansive, and made a few changes to our “park the bus" tactic.  Some more traditional defending for our centre backs, along with strengthening up the wide areas, and some playmaking in the middle to feed our strikers balls. We had Chatham coming up in two games time, who were predicted to be above us in the league, and who had won their opening game 4-0. I’d need to have a defensive tactic sorted by then. It wasn’t quite back to the drawing board, but slight adjustments were definitely needed, even if we were sitting in fourth on goal difference after our first match. The league looked like madness with one round done, and we’d definitely do better with options ready for whatever was thrown at us.  There were a lot of goals in all the games in the first round, meaning it was shaping up to be a wild season.
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Jan 13, 2021 23:42
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That NW Kent derby with Bearsted is looking tasty 
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Jan 14, 2021 00:01
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What do you consider to be a nonsense centre back David
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Jan 14, 2021 00:11
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Fedule posted:What do you consider to be a nonsense centre back David John Terry
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Jan 14, 2021 00:16
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up the wells.Fedule posted:What do you consider to be a nonsense centre back David john stones.
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Jan 14, 2021 00:17
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Phil Jones is pretty loving nonsense
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Jan 14, 2021 00:23
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