Although I've posted LLM updates before, this is my first crack at an FM Story. Some LLM patterns may still be apparent. And, as you will see, I have a ton of leagues loaded so if it goes too slowly I may just chuck it. 
Technical details:
Game: FM 2005 (latest patch, no data update)
Leagues: USA, Mexico, Colombia, Peru, Brazil, Argentina, Uruguay, Chile, England, Scotland, Germany, Spain, Italy, Switzerland (all divisions loaded with large database)
Prologue
At some point you just have to take chance. Usually this realization comes when a chapter is firmly closed, when you realize continuing to do what you've been doing is insane.
For people in the business of soccer, that moment of clarity can be a rude awakening brought on by the latest injury the physio/witch-doctor "treats" with the magic lemon juice. Sometimes it's just sitting in your car at a traffic light when you suddenly realize the absurdity of racing teammates to the bank because everyone knows the club has only enough money to make half the payroll.
So it was with me. Nearly a decade spent knocking around the lower leagues of the United States, traveling from one end of the continent to another. All for the "thrill" of sharing a 14-hour van ride with 4 other players, going from somewhere like Atlanta to Rochester for a Friday game, followed by a Saturday game in Montreal. All for the thrill of reporting for training camp only to find five trialists looking to take your job, all refugees from teams that have just hung up the "out of business" sign, like San Diego, Milwaukee, Cincinnati. Maybe if you're lucky you land in Rochester or Charleston, some place that can pay you more than your cousin gets working 40 hours a week in a dying Michigan factory. And then the cycle begins all over again.
Somewhere around my 29th birthday is when that moment hit me. Funny thing is, I don't remember when it happened. It might have been the bounced paycheck in Cincinnati. It might have been when Atlanta would only offer a "pay-for-play" contract. Oh sure, you can make some extra money teaching at the numerous youth soccer clinics, but who wants to deal with that for 30 years? Who wants to deal with smart-ass 12-year-olds who think they can "bend it like Beckham" but refer to the "Glasgow Celtics"?
I decided that wasn't for me, but I still love this game for some strange reason. So I went and got my "A" license from the federation. I was never the best player, I'll admit that, but it's bad when you realize you know more about the game than some glorified college soccer coach who never played beyond the PDL (at best) teaching
you how to coach the sport you've been involved with all your life.
But, "A" license in hand I immediately set out to make myself useful. There were no vacancies in the US, or at least nobody willing to take a shot on a 31-year-old coach, so I loaded up my clapped out 1997 Jeep Cherokee and hit the Pan-American Highway.
February 2005
Like I said, I admit I was never the best player. But if there was one thing a manager could count on it was my determination, that "bulldog spirit" so prized in England. I hated to lose, hated to fail, and that led to the red mist decending a few times in my career.
Anyway, so it was that I found myself continuing to go south. Rejection after rejection. Mexico. Guatemala. Honduras. El Salvador. Costa Rica. They piled up, but I kept going. Somehow, that old Jeep Cherokee kept going too, until I found myself near Bogota, Colombia.
It was there I heard from Eduardo, one of my former teammates from El Paso, about a vacancy with the second division side
Girardot FCNC, a commerical center and transportation hub a few hours from Bogota. He was busy running a bar about halfway between the two and, since my Spanish was limited mostly to
"Un cerveza, por favor," agreed to accompany me to a hurried meeting with the chairman.
I'm not sure how it happened or what Eduardo said (for all I know he might have offered the chairman a night with his sister), but for whatever reason the chairman decided to take a chance on me. The cost of a translator, however, would come out of my own pocket.
2005 season
When I arrived in Girardot, the club was already a couple matches into the Colombian season. I surveyed the squad and considered it wholly unimpressive. But what was I going to do, with one scout who was blind in one eye (the victim of an unfortunate misunderstanding with some of the local paramilitary)? Not to mention the challenge of learning how to deal in a currency that's so devalued you're paid in millions of pesos.
I decided to settle on a Christmas tree formation, given that I actually had a couple of decentish midfielders. It didn't work.
A tactical switch ensued and we performed competently, if not consistently. We found ourselves on the wrong end of a couple of hammerings, but also had a glorious moment beating playoff-bound Real Cartegena 2-0 in their building in front of a television audience.
Unfortunately, consistency was in short supply and while we were never in any real danger of relegation we also were never a threat to crack the top 8 -- the playoff spots. We finished 13th. I pronounced myself satisfied and sent the players on their close season.
Throw in Shakira tickets and you've got yourself a manager 
You must have a super duper computer 
Linear Mode
