If you register for free, you will be able to post threads, vote on polls and lots more. If you have problems with the registration or logging in, please contact the administrator.
Hello my friends and fellow avid readers/writers of FMS's. The diligent amongst you might have noticed that I've been subtly threatening for a little while now that I'm going to post one of the most detailed, indepth stories in CM/FM history (the quality - well i leave for you to assess). I'm finally ready, having spent the last two weeks emigrating from Nepal and hunting around for a new PC in my new base in similarly land-locked Warwickshire (I do miss gazing out over the Himalayas ).
My story is certainly BIG; it will take quite a few posts before I even get to the pre-season friendlies but I'm creating a world here of Tolkeinesque dimensions (well not quite). I sent a sample of it to the Bootroom chappy but he's yet to respond so I'll begin by pasting some of what I wrote to him - my 'philosophy' if you like.
BTW: max db, English (inc. Conf of course) and Indian leagues running (you'll see why); CM03/03 4.1.5, CMSorted update.
According to orthodox scientific thinking all life (biology) reduces to chemistry (cells made up of molecules), which reduces to physics (the composition and behaviour of the atoms which comprise the molecules), which reduces to the laws of mathematics. If you think this renders the ‘Truth’ depressingly tedious I invite you to consider the premise of ‘The Matrix’,in which a convincing but artificial ‘Reality’ is created from raw mathematical data. With the appropriate injection of imagination maths can be devastatingly fascinating.
The programmers of computer games know this and use it to bring alternative realities alive. Perhaps the most obvious popular example is the Championship Manager series where raw mathematical data is crunched, analysed and interpreted by gamers to create the sensation of interacting with thousands of real personalities. Some gamers like to record stories of their CM campaigns and share them on fans’ forums. To my mind the extent of the success of these stories largely depends on how far the writer engages his imagination and writing skills in moving developing the game data. Most submissions (in other scene forums!) are frankly boring – straightforward tabulation of the statistics with a little match commentary thrown in and the odd diversion where the spotty teenaged ‘manager’ chats down the pub with his mate or gives his girlfriend one.
I’d like to offer something very different – a genre that lies somewhere between ‘CM story’ and ‘Fever Pitch’. I am ‘fleshing out’ – better, putting the soul into a campaign where I only quote statistics such as a real football reporter would, not any CM stats. Without falsifying any events in my CM game I translate them into real footballing language and create realistic scenarios to put the events CM throws up into a context.
Thus I create not so much yet another CM story but a saga – a long open-ended epic hopefully continuing for (game) years and developing the appeal of a soap opera which could be serialised in The Bootroom, perhaps sending reports in chunks of one month in game-time.
My father was Bengali, born in India; my mother Scottish. I was raised on a cold, bleak island in the Hebrides but relocated to Calcutta – a hot, humid hell – as a teenager. I soon found myself playing football for local youth teams and in due course forged a modest semi-professional career in India for a decade. A non-football job opportunity as a travelling salesman saw me move back to the UK – to the cold damp north of England where I was able to able to continue playing at semi-professional level in the Northern Premier (now UniBond) and lower Scottish leagues. I finished my playing days as a player/coach with Accrington Stanley the season we won promotion to the Conference for the first time. Mr. Whalley, the chairman called me into his office during the close season on the morning of 12th July, the day my contract expired and I called in to collect my final pay packet. I’d said my goodbyes two months back whilst everyone was more preoccupied celebrating our most successful season and parading the trophy and it was with a heavy, lonely heart that I officially retired from the beautiful game. Or at least that is what I’d assumed; in fact the boss had a surprise in store.
“Your contribution both on and off the field were instrumental in getting us to the Conference for the first time in history lad” he told me in what I initially took to be a predictable ‘thanks for everything, now sod off while the rest of us go on to bigger and better things’ speech. But he continued in an unexpected mode; “The board feels that we don’t currently have the quality to stay there – we need to completely restructure the management, the coaching and the squad from top to bottom, but we don’t have any extra cash to invest. We know that as well as an extensive knowledge of local young talent you’ve built up a network of friendships in other pockets of the globe such as India; we believe that with your scouting skills and other latent managerial qualities you are the ideal man to rebuild the squad from the grassroots, take the club onwards and upwards, all on a shoestring – whaddaya say lad?”
I was flabbergasted – I’d never heard so many clichés recited without drawing breath, and in fact my global network hardly ranged beyond the metropolitan limits of Calcutta, but I knew where my heart lay and it wasn’t in driving a white van across bleak moors trying to flog exotic herbs and spices until I drop dead. I realised it would mean a knife in the back of John Coleman, the gaffer who took us up and is worshipped by the fans for his achievements in bringing the club two championships and four cups in only four seasons. As player/manager and prolific goal scorer he was the true inspiration both on and off the pitch, not me, and whilst he’d decided to hang up his boots for the new season he hadn’t reckoned on finding wardrobe space for his sheepskin. It would also mean pulling the lever to open the trapdoor beneath a few of the squad who were looking forward to showcasing their talents at such a dizzying height – but hey, I was brought up on Macbeth and then India’s gangster politics; my coup would be bloodless – where’s the fire? Mind you I’d have to employ a little tact with my ruthlessness – I’d only been at the club two years and was no great personality, and I knew who the really popular heroes were – mostly deadwood in my opinion. Fans can be so shallow but you have to keep them sweet, so whilst the likes of dear Jimmy Bell, the organ-grinder’s monkey who’s loved by all as much for his gormless antics as for his legendary goal-scoring feats might have to share the next stage-coach out of town with the gaffer, replacing the bulk of the first team might put some strain on my relations with both the fans and incumbent players. My instinct was that patience would not be on my side; I’d need to hit the ground running and get some results on board.
I left Eric, the big cheese to break the news to the (old) gaffer and the press as I disappeared into my study to think through some strategies. Matters like tactics and training would have to wait until I knew which personnel would be coming, although I saw no inherent reason why a bunch of cloggers couldn’t emulate El Galacticos – Real Madrid’s tactics – I was keen to try, and I’d be looking for coaches and players to back my experiment; I was determined that if I go down, I go playing the game the beautiful way.
As I contemplated the squad I realised that the board were correct. Nobody actually expected us to get promoted – to the media it was a fluke and even within the club nobody could really believe it. The Conference is packed with half-decent ex-league clubs and the gap between them and the Third Division is minimal. Everyone sees the likes of Tamworth and us as out of our depth and tip us to go straight back down. Eric did confide in me that as far as the board are concerned if we defy the pundits and stay up they’d consider that an achievement – so long as there’s still brass in t’coffers!
Our wafer-thin squad of 21 comprised mostly a few likely lads who’d willingly run around like blue-arsed flies all day but to no great avail at this level, and a few old war-horses who’ve played at league level but whose brains are far quicker than their tired legs now. The one player of real quality was our newest acquisition, one the board frankly broke the bank to get in thus leaving me with little cash for transfers or wages – Ged Brannan. He’s just signed a contract for five times the wage the next highest earner gets; Eric confessed to me that this was a mistake and that we’d not be able to renew his one-year contract nor come anywhere near matching it. “I’m afraid we’re stuck with him, unless you can offload him but I can’t see anyone coughing up what we have.” I took a more optimistic view – he’s got a damn good engine and a good head on his shoulders. I figured I could effectively rebuild the team around him as my dream tactic to bedazzle the Conference rested on two solid defensive midfielders.
That evening I made my first move – I got on the ‘phone to a very good friend of mine, a major celebrity in Calcutta, the Sachin Tendulkar of the football world, India’s star striker Baichung Bhutia. He’d had three less-than-successful seasons at Bury when they were initially in Division One where he scored three goals in 36 appearances and was the only Indian ever to play European league soccer, but he couldn’t get up to pace with the English game and left the obscurity of Bury reserves two years back to return to iconic status in Bengal. We’d played together a few years ago and when I left to migrate to Britain we kept in close touch. At Bury he was delighted to have my company and we became best mates. He was disappointed not to have made it in the English league and I knew that at the age of only 27, having achieved everything in India he was hopeful of a second bite. I was confidant that since he’s returned to Calcutta his fitness has improved and his skills blossomed, and that at a lower level of the English game he’d shine. He was so excited – both for me and for my proposal. Of course he had a contract with East Bengal and they wouldn’t be keen to lose their star striker, but frankly the boy is bigger than the game there, and I knew he’d be persuasive. He told me he’d do a deal with the board – they’d release him for a year’s loan and he’d sign an extension to his contract. They wouldn’t refuse – he held all the cards. In fact he had one more ace down his shin pad – he recommended a young kid on his club’s books who he assured me was a major star in the making – provided he got some decent coaching and a chance to play more challenging matches than were on offer at East Bengal. He said the kid was named Shylo Malswamatalunga and everyone called him ‘Mama’. I suggested inviting the kid for a trial but Baichung pointed out that travelling so far and coping with such an unfamiliar culture would not be conducive to such an instant assessment. “Trust me Andy,” he insisted, “The kid is hot. Buy him – he’s well into the last year of his contract so you’ll get him cheap, and put him on a long contract. In my year there I’ll settle him in and then you’ll get the best of him over the next few years. You’ll get a work permit for him to – he’s only 18 but he played in the last few internationals. The gaffer has just dropped him from the World Cup qualifiers’ squad, so if you dither he won’t be eligible.” I do trust Baichung, he’s my best mate he is, although I told myself that every other signing would be guys I could vouch for personally.
The next day after I’d negotiated and signed my new contract I broke the good news to the chairman and left him to tie up the details such as applying for work permits. Later on he got back to me; “Bloody hell Andy! I’ve just been on the blower to my oppo at East Bengal – the lad’ll come cheap (but will need a couple of weeks to say goodbye to his family before showing up), but your superstar is on superstar wages and we’ll need to meet them. They’re not as huge as Ged’s but you do realise that all your subsequent signings will have to be lads ‘oo work down t’mill and ‘ose mams wash their jerseys after a game.”
I wasn’t too worried in fact; even if it took the kid time to show anything, with Ged breaking up any enemy attacks and Baichung banging them in at the other end I was quietly confident I could assemble a squad of genuine quality for next to nothing. The secret of my confidence was the hard work I’d put in over the previous decade. Whilst all about me in the football world guys who should know better were squandering their free time having rude conversations with virtual ladies in the day and all-to-real ones in the evenings, or playing that silly computer game Championship Manager, I was driving my battered white van around the wastelands of northern England. Whilst my primary reason was to talk sales strategies or attempt to sell that authentic Tandoori sensation to a populace whose taste for the exotic amounted to battered Mars Bars, I always made a point of dropping by local football clubs and pubs frequented by their staff to discuss players I’d played against or up-and-coming talent. This is what the chairman had been alluding to when hinting that the board wasn’t going to shell out for the salaries or travel expenses of a small army of scouts, and was putting its faith in my ability to assemble a motley crew of overlooked wannabees and rejects during the pre-season and prove themselves to be better than the current squad.
In fact the next fortnight proved to be a bit of a reality check. Suddenly I wasn’t the mate to have a pint and gossip with, I was a man to talk business, and that business involved trying to persuade kids who all think they’re the next Wayne Rooney to come to Albatross Stanley. I see now that for every transfer deal you read about in the press there are hundreds of approaches that don’t come off, and when your club can’t afford either scouts or agents doing all the spadework yourself is frustrating and knackering. My first ploy was to use some of the interviews with local media on my appointment to drop the names of a few lads who’d impressed me in the last season, such as Lee Clitheroe at Lancaster, Michael Houghton at Nantwich, Steve Rimmer at Marine and Gateshead’s Gareth Powell and David Coulson. I gave them the chance to read their local rags and turn up at pre-season training all excited before calling their clubs in the afternoon. This led to mixed responses; I fixed deals and agreed terms with Clitheroe within 24 hours, and Coulson and Houghton soon followed. Rimmer and Powell detected my strong desire to acquire a decent goalie and centre-back and stubbornly priced themselves out of my very restricted wage cap. The other three had accepted between six and eight thousand per year for the privilege of representing us. I was particularly confident that Michael Houghton would make an immediate impact bombing down the left wing and paid a king’s ransom of £7000 for him; the other two came for £2000 and £4000. Then I took myself and my van down to the snooty south to do some shopping. I won’t dwell on the dozens of fruitless meetings but I was pleased with the three acquisitions I made – the pricey Simon Langley came from Chertsey for £7000 and I deigned to give a contract worth £10000 per year. The Hooray Henrys at Harrow accepted £2000 for Richard Clarke who in turn accepted a salary of £8000, and then I blew almost all my left-over budget on Steve Campbell, forking out an outrageous £16000 to bring him from Mangotsfield (although most of that was payable in instalments over the next 6 months). If he shone in the centre of the park as an attacking midfielder he’d be worth the money; it was a gamble I admit.
While I was clinching that last deal I heard an unreported rumour of a flare-up at Aldershot. It seemed that the manager had clashed with their unfeasibly fantastic young goalie, Nikki Bull. It sounded like it would all blow over by the morning, so as I was only a couple of hours away I dashed to the club and ‘innocently’ introduced myself to the chairman and gaffer, Terry Brown. The atmosphere was pretty tense; I won’t go into sordid details but suffice to say they were prepared to offload their prize asset there and then. Nikki was called in and within minutes we’d all agreed a deal – under the all-to-fresh circumstances none of them was in the mood for serious negotiation; I couldn’t believe my fortune. I’d been feeling all week that whilst our goalie Jamie Speare is regarded as one of our best players, in my estimation he’s peaked and I was looking for someone younger, more dependable and with a better future, and our back-up lad Jon Kennedy was never going to be that. My disappointment at failing to secure Gateshead’s Gareth Powell was immediately dissipated with this opportunity. You can imagine how I felt when I burst into Whalley’s office the next afternoon to bring him the exciting news. “Now listen up lad,” he retorted firmly, “You’re all spent up. We can’t spare a single brass button for at least the next month. You should have kept a little something in reserve you know. Come to think of it,”, he added caustically, “When I weighed up your qualities before offering you the job I didn’t stop to think about your adeptness with the purse-strings. I’m learning.” I was devastated. When I called Bull’s agent to break the sad news I was told that they’d all partially patched up and his client wasn’t ready to move on just yet. I’m learning.
You never know what’s going to happen in football next. No dosh and a gaping big hole in my onion-bag needing filling. A few months ago I’d been at a sales conference where I met a delegate from Austria. He was most conversant in the game at grassroots level on account of his son being a goalkeeper at a small semi-pro club called SC Eisenstadt. just as one door had slammed shut another one opened when he called me to say he was in London and his son was with him, looking for a new challenge, and could I help? I told him of my newfound position and invited them to turn up immediately. What I saw was astonishing. How no one had ever spotted young Peter Reiter I’ll never know but his reflexes were outstanding and he could throw himself across goal or at crosses like no one I’ve seen at this level. I had my goalie and what’s more he was free. Partly as a result of the previous confrontation the chairman gruffly acceded to the lad’s wage requirements and made this unknown the fourth highest earner in the squad. Cheap at twice the price though – trust me!
That, I thought, concluded the pre-season rebuilding of the squad – in the end just a few tweaks really. I only put three lads on the transfer list – once Reiter was in challenging Speare for the number one jersey I felt I could let young Jon Kennedy go, then I put the lad Steve McDonald, a young striker just not up to the mark on the list. I had to watch the lad cry – he’s only 20 and has been at the club since his school days. Finally I’ll listen to any offers for Steve Hollis. He’s 30 and has been with the club for aeons – the loyalist of servants, but whilst he still has enough in him to be a useful back up to the back line, the boss is on my back about cutting the wage bill. I take no pleasure from distressing such Stanleyites despite my previous hard-man bluster. Actually the pre-season squad building wasn’t quite over – there was one more to come. Three years ago a young striker by the name of Gary Williams had set a club record by scoring 24 goals in 24 games, then had a personal crisis of some indeterminate but seemingly mental nature and disappeared without a trace. Suddenly, half way through our pre-season preparations he showed up, asking to be re-signed. I put him through his paces, threw him on in the next friendly and he capped off an impressive performance by scoring. We were light up front with a partner for Bhutia; if Williams could recover his old form we would be quite something to see – but I did have reservations about his state of mind.
And then finally finally a new face arrived the day before our first fixture in the Conference. Weeks before I’d made a speculative enquiry about a prospect but put the matter out of my mind when I got no reply. Imagine my astonishment therefore when I made a call to see Eric and found I had just missed the signing of a contract. I didn’t actually mention to anyone that I’d forgotten about the boy, nor did I comment on learning that the board had put aside £5000 to purchase him which might have been used to strengthen another position. For ironically Roberto Gomez Lopez was a goalkeeper. He didn’t speak a word of English and no one here spoke Spanish, and he did look worryingly slight for the rough and tumble of the English lower leagues. I didn’t have an opportunity to trial him with the first team so I stuck him in the reserves. By the way he came from a minor Spanish club, Caudal. I don’t know what possessed me.
As well as the ten acquisitions I made for the squad I built up an abnormally large stable of backroom staff to turn these hopefuls into winners. Firstly I had a long chat with the chairman about my popular but moronic number two who is clearly out of his depth. Mr. Whalley saw my point of view and called Jimmy Bell together with his agent into the office. After extensive negotiations the board decided that they couldn’t afford Bell’s demands for severance pay and thus we all give him our full support. After that I couldn’t get on speaking terms with him for some reason however, and a fortnight later the board bit the bullet and paid him off. In the meantime a number of inexperienced coaches with fine pedigrees of playing careers behind them accepted contracts. Tony Lormor, Gary Bannister, Warren Aspinall, Darren Beckford and Steve Sedgley all came, together with the legendary Nigel Winterburn. My intention was to make up lots of individualised training programmes and I hoped they’d do the business, because the combined total of the coaches’ salaries had put the clubs finances way out of kilter and as I discovered, the tight-fisted board don’t like that.
Educated and anyone else with the same thought - how often do you want me to update? I don't want to overload you. I thought I'd put the rest of the pre-season stuff up this evening and then drip maybe a fortnight or so game/story time per (real) day. The intro is the longest part mind you. I'm a very slow and methodical player - no half a season per evening for me, more like two to four weeks. But I can stick the chapters up faster if you like.
Harpal Singh - way out of my league at Stanley I'm afraid. I have tried but he's valued at about a million with wages to match and has higher aspirations. I see he's followed Bhutia to Bury (on loan from Leeds) - Bury got a bit of a theme going there. Anyone seen him IRL?
BTW if you look at the database of Indian players you'll see that half of them are named Singh (at least they are IRL; the really committed Sikhs have huge beards and big topknots - groovy).
overloading is a major problem, no matter the quality people are liable to "switch off" if they see masses to get through, such is the nature of the internet. My suggestion is to trust your own judgement on this.
Cometh The Hour, Cometh The Stan 
Sign Harpal Signh for a laugh too, and try for Jules lberto too. Good luck.
Linear Mode
