January Window (42 page)

‘Sure, sometimes you have to be a bully, but motivating players is something else. To motivate men in sport is like motivating people in any other walk of life. You need two things. First thing is you need to understand people and you can only do that by listening to them; too many people talk but they don’t listen first. Listening is essential. Get to know your players; talk to them quietly and with respect; and treat them like individuals. Like human beings. Second thing you need is to have earned people’s respect. People respect experience, and mostly that means experience of life itself. Now I don’t know many men who have as much experience of life as you, Scott. After all that’s happened to you, I see a man who other men will always listen to. Sure, you played professional football for years, you’ve been where they are, but this is the very least you can expect of a manager. That he’s done the job himself. More important than any of this is that you’ve survived the worst things that life can throw at you and come out the other side. You’re a survivor. This makes you a man that other men will listen to. Even me.

‘But when you do speak, what will you say? Actually, speaking to players is simple; you have to say a lot but in as few words as possible, because they have very short attention spans. You have to make every word count. Simplicity is the most sophisticated motivational tool in the world. It takes real intelligence to know
what not to say
as well as what needs to be said. I’m not talking about doing it in a hundred and forty characters but frankly, men who can say what needs to be said in less than a thousand words are the best men in football.’

A couple of hours before the game Simon Page arrived with the team from Hangman’s Wood; full of noise and jokes and excited to be playing a match they trooped into the dressing room but gradually fell silent when they saw me already sitting there below the portrait of Zarco. I was wearing a black suit, a white shirt and a black tie and I probably looked like a funeral director. At least I hoped I did.

The lads changed into their kit and waited quietly for me to say something. For once nobody had his ears full of music or a PS Vita in his hands; I think if I’d even seen one of these stupid handheld game consoles I’d have thrown it into the bin. This was no time for games. But I wasn’t ready to say anything yet. I wanted my words still to be ringing in their ears like the noise of the crowd as they waited in the tunnel. Instead I handed each man his black armband, told him to wear it on his left arm and reminded him that there would be a minute’s silence on the pitch before the match.

Just before the team went out onto the pitch with Simon to warm up, Viktor arrived in the dressing room with Bekim Develi. They’d just flown in to the nearby London City Airport on Viktor’s private jet. Silvertown Dock was the only ground in the country you could fly to and be in the stadium within twenty minutes. He was dressed for Russian cold in a long-haired beaver coat and Develi was wearing something similar; these two bearded men looked like the Brothers Karamazov.

The dressing room always stiffened when Viktor appeared; he was essentially a shy man and in spite of his lavish generosity he lacked the common touch. Maybe it was the fact that he was Ukrainian or maybe it was because he was sometimes embarrassed to be quite as rich as he was, but sometimes Viktor expressed himself a little awkwardly.

‘I just came down to wish you luck tonight,’ he said, ‘and to introduce you to Bekim Develi, who I think you will all agree is certainly the best midfielder in Europe. Now that the objections to Bekim’s coming to this club have been thrown out of the window, he’s joining us from Dynamo St Petersburg, where as many of you will know he was on loan from Paris Saint-Germain.’

I wasn’t sure what Viktor meant by this remark. After all he wasn’t to know that I had discovered – more or less – the way in which Zarco had really been killed. Was it possible that he was unconsciously referencing the manner of Zarco’s death? A Freudian slip, or something like it? A tasteless joke, even? Surely not. It wasn’t long before Viktor’s words started to feel like a piece of grit in my shoe.

‘At a press conference tomorrow,’ continued Viktor, ‘Bekim will be introduced to the world as our last and, with due respect to Kenny Traynor, our most important January signing. Before then I’m sure you’ll all want to make him feel very welcome at London City, just as I’m sure you’re going to beat West Ham tonight.’

Viktor certainly saw his gift to me hanging on the wall of the dressing room, but he didn’t mention Zarco at all; perhaps he was leaving that to me. But it surprised me a little, as did the fact that Viktor was wearing Zarco’s lucky scarf, the one I’d looked for in suite 123.

Bekim Develi shook hands with everyone as they went outside to warm up. He was a tall man – well over six foot – powerfully built and handsome, too, with a square shovel of a red beard and fortunately not nearly as fat as had been rumoured; but he smelled strongly of cigarettes and I hoped he wasn’t a smoker. I shook his hand and handed him a black armband.

‘What’s this?’

‘I’m surprised you have to ask. Didn’t Viktor tell you?’

‘Tell me what?’

Just as I was about to say something rude to our new star signing Viktor came over and started speaking to Develi in Russian. Although I don’t know the language, it was quite clear to me that Zarco’s death was news to the footballer, which left me in little doubt that in spite of having shared a private jet from St Petersburg to London, the two men simply hadn’t discussed it. I was astonished by this.

‘That’s Zarco’s lucky scarf,’ I said as I handed Viktor a black armband.

‘Is it?’ he asked nonchalantly.

‘It’s from Savile Rogue,’ I said, pointing out the JGZ written on the logo, just in case anyone nicked it. ‘They make cashmere football scarves.’

‘Cashmere, eh? I wondered why I liked it so much.’

‘Perhaps, if he’d been wearing it, then he might still be alive,’ I said pointedly. ‘Where did you find it?’

‘He left it in the executive dining room on Saturday,’ said Viktor. ‘I took it with me when I went to look for him. I thought someone ought to wear it tonight. Just in case we need any luck. Do we? Need any luck tonight?’

‘Of course we do,’ I said. ‘Because if we lose, luck, or the lack of it, will be the best way of explaining why the other side won.’

‘When I came out of prison one of the first things I did was to go on holiday to Nîmes in France – and while I was there I went to see a bullfight in the Roman amphitheatre they have in the city. I loved every bloody minute of it. And not just me. I’ve never seen a stadium so packed, the people so overwhelmed, so blinded with sunny tears and emotion. I told someone here about it – some twat from the BBC – and they were very disapproving, the way people are about bullfighting; they said, “That’s not a sport.” And I said, “You’re right, it’s not a sport, it’s not something you watch or enjoy, like a game of fucking tennis; no, it’s something you feel in every fibre of your body because you know that at any moment, the matador could easily slip or make a mistake and then there would be a black Miura fighting bull putting all its half-ton weight into the stiletto tip of one lethal horn as it bears down on that man’s thigh. Of course that’s not a fucking sport,” I said, “it’s so much more than just a sport. It’s life in the moment, because the future is promised to no one.”

‘It’s the same with football, guys. We only pretend that it’s a fucking sport, in order not to frighten women with this, our passion for the game. The truth is that sports are for children on a summer’s day, or idiots with stupid hats who go to flirt with chinless wonders wearing tailcoats and maybe look at all the pretty horses. Because if you were to walk out there now and ask any one of our supporters if they are here to be entertained or to see anything pretty, I promise they’d look at you like you were fucking crazy. And they’d be right to do so. They’d tell you that they haven’t paid seventy-five quid for a seat
to be amused
. Some of you people are on a hundred thousand pounds a week. But football is worth so much more than that to those people outside. A hell of a lot more. To most of those men and women this team is their whole fucking life and the result of any match means
everything
to them; everything.

‘So let me enlighten you, gentlemen: nobody at this club is playing for a hundred grand a week. You’re playing so that our supporters can go to work tomorrow morning and feel a sense of pride that their team won in grand style last night. And any man who thinks differently ought to put in for a transfer right now because we don’t want you at Silvertown Dock. It doesn’t matter who they are – players or supporters – it’s believers we want here. The believers, gentlemen: that’s who we play for. That’s what we are. We’re men who believe.

‘If this sounds a little religious, that’s because it is; football is a religion. I am not exaggerating. The official religion of this country is not Christianity, or Islam, it’s football. Because nobody goes to church any more. Certainly not on a Sunday. They go to football. Take a walk around this building some time, guys, and listen to the prayers from our believers. That’s right; this is their cathedral. This is their place of worship. This team is their creed. If that sounds blasphemous I apologise, but it’s a fact. This is where the believers come to commune with their gods. Every week I look up from the dugout and I see signs hanging from the stands that read
Have Faith in Zarco
. But right now, their faith is being tested, gentlemen. That faith has been severely challenged. Right now, they’re feeling a tremendous sense of grief and loss. As I am and as I hope you are, too. Look, I’m not going to give you any Coach Carter bullshit and tell you that this is the most important match in our club’s history. I wouldn’t insult you. What I will say is this: it’s up to just eleven of you to restore that faith. And that’s more important than anything.’

I pointed to Zarco’s picture on the wall.

‘Take a good look at that man before you walk out there. Ask yourself what it would mean to him if you won this game tonight. Really look him in the eye and listen to his voice in your head because I promise you that you’ll hear it, as clear as a bell. I think he will tell you this: you’re not going to win this game for me, or for Scott Manson, or for Mr Sokolnikov. You’re going to win this game for all those believers out there.

‘Some of you will struggle tonight. Some of you will not perform to the best of your ability. You know something? I don’t care. What I do care about is that you try your utmost and that you do not give up. Not until you’ve heard that final whistle. In case you never noticed, that’s why supporters stay right until the end of the game, because they don’t give up. And nor should you. So all of you who are playing tonight will be out there for the full ninety minutes, together as a team, and unless you’ve got a broken leg don’t even think of coming off. I mean it, gentlemen. There will be no substitutions at half time or any time. You are the best that this club can field tonight. So, forget whatever you’ve read in the newspapers or heard on the radio; I’ve picked you because I think you’re eleven men with something to prove to the fans, to Zarco, to me, and to yourselves. But mostly I picked you because I think you will beat these guys tonight. I sincerely believe that, which is why no one is coming to help you out. Not the spirit of Zarco, or God, or me. Just them. The believers.’

Every football fan in Silvertown Dock had found a paper square taped to his seat; one side of the square was the club’s Ukrainian orange and the other side was black. When the referee blew his whistle to begin a minute’s silence for Zarco everyone lifted up his square of paper, flipped it over and the whole stadium turned from orange to black. You could have heard a ticket drop and I was grateful we were playing a class club like West Ham who can always be relied on to respect football traditions. It was very moving to see.

The match was finally ready to start. Wrapped in my cashmere coat, I settled down on my Recaro heated seat in the dugout, with Simon Page beside me, and glanced around Silvertown Dock in wonder. As usual Colin Evans looked to have done a fantastic job. In spite of near freezing conditions the pitch looked like a bowling green on a summer’s day, although as things turned out it was a little harder than usual. A message on my iPad informed me that it was a capacity crowd and it certainly looked and sounded that way. The atmosphere in the stadium was quite extraordinary, a strange mixture of grief and excitement. There were tributes to and pictures of Zarco everywhere you looked, and when the minute’s silence was completed the home fans began to sing (to the Beatles tune ‘Hello Goodbye’), ‘João, João Zarco, I don’t know why you say goodbye we say hello’. They also sang Pat Boone’s ‘Speedy Gonzales’ (‘Speedy Gonzales, why don’t you come home?’)

An attempt by the Hammers fans to make themselves heard with a spirited rendition of ‘Bubbles’ proved to be in vain.

My satisfaction at the way things had begun lasted precisely thirty-eight seconds. Ayrton Taylor was dispossessed by Carlton Cole straight from the kick-off, and a quick through ball from him was neatly transferred from Ravel Morrison to Jack Collison, who sent Bruno Haider running swiftly down the right. West Ham’s young Austrian striker glanced up as if to cross but he had only one thing on his mind. Right on the edge of the penalty area he stepped inside Ken Okri, and onto his stronger left foot. The shot Haider then curled into the far top corner had so much topspin it might have been struck by Andy Murray and, let down by some horrible defending, poor Kenny Traynor had no chance of getting a hand to the ball. One-nil to them.

The West Ham fans behind our goal were predictably delirious with joy; otherwise you might have been forgiven for thinking that a second minute’s silence was under way, such was the reaction of the orange-wearing supporters. I lifted the iPad in front of my face – so that the television cameras watching my every move and scrutinising the succession could not read my lips – and swore loudly several times. But it was a spectacular goal for the young Austrian and given his age and experience he could have been forgiven for taking off his claret and blue shirt and running towards the television cameras to celebrate. Frankly if I’d had a six-pack like that I’d have taken my shirt off too, but the referee felt obliged to give him a yellow card for which he was justly booed, by everyone – even our supporters, who could appreciate the excellence of Haider’s strike. Personally, I don’t blame the referees but IFAB’s stupid law 12 regarding fouls and misconduct, which just ensures that no one gets any advertising without paying for it.