Soccer Coach 2004

Chapter Eight: Five-a-side

"We regret to inform you that your services will not be required and thus your contract will not be renewed this upcoming semester. Thank you for all your hard work at South Birmingham Polytechnic, and best of luck in the future."

John stared at the letter. He had received it a few hours ago. Since then, he had done nothing but stare at it. He had called the dean to ask, to demand an explanation. The dean told him that they had decided to employ that charlatan Zach Bernardo instead. After all his work, all his dedication over the last five years, to be kicked out for that pretender, for that huckster. There weren't even word to express it.

One letter; that was all it took to destroy John's entire world. He stared at the letter, still trying to comprehend it. Trying to work out what it meant for his future. His job had been his whole life. It wasn't like there were other vacancies in computer analytics in sports, South Birmingham had been one-of-a-kind, the only course like it in Europe. A PhD and five years research experience, which in the space of one letter was now worth approximately the same as half a loo roll. Like a promising young striker with major cruciate ligament damage, his whole world had come crashing down in one moment. Stretchered off the pitch in tears, the letter still in his hand, the ink smudged by the salty drops from his eyes.

He needed someone to talk to, but he had no one. John had spent his whole life dedicated to football analysis, he had little time for friends, for dates. He thought about texting Liz. Would she even respond? He had nobody, nothing left to lose. He sent her a text message.

He stared at the letter some more. Nearly thirty now, and what job could he do? What use could he be to the world? His raison d'etre had been destroyed in a single moment. John thought about playing Soccer Coach 2004, he thought about proving that he could win on the game, about regaining some confidence, some belief that he was the best there was, and that Zach Bernardo was merely an obstacle to be overcome. What was the use? What would winning a few games on Soccer Coach 2004 prove? He clicked on the game file, then he clicked 'delete'.

What could he do with his life now? The question was too much for him to answer, he stared at the letter some more.

John's phone vibrated.

A text from Liz? Maybe she did care after all, maybe there was actually somebody in the world who he was meant to be with. John picked up his phone and read the message.

"Where are you? The game starts in ten minutes!"

It was from John's brother. His perfect, perfect big brother. His perfect brother with the perfect wife and the perfect high paying job. The brother who was good at sports and who everybody loved. "Oh John, why can't you be more like George? Why can't you get a steady job and a mortgage like George? Why can't you find a nice girl and settle down like George?" The words of his mother running through his ears.

He wanted to reply, to say that he couldn't go to five-a-side. Maybe the exercise would be good for him? The competition might help him take his mind off things. Besides, it was too late to cancel, not without telling George that he was a failure, that he was unemployed and at almost thirty had no prospects to match his lack of girlfriend and mortgage.

-----

"Hurry up and put your boots on, we are already a goal down!"

John hurriedly tried to tie his laces, his mind still on the letter.

"What took you so long?" his brother shouted, half focusing on the other team's goalkeeper as he rolled the ball short.

Finally, John ran onto the pitch, almost tripping over his own legs in the process. "Sorry I'm late lads, was busy at work," no need to compound his misery by telling them the truth.

John got the ball at his feet. He looked up, his brother was open. He tried to play a simple pass to him but it was too weak. An opponent ran through the gap between him and George, intercepted the pass and shot low and hard past the unprepared goalkeeper and into the bottom corner of the net.

"Some first touch," George said to John, "Maybe you should've spent longer tying your laces."

John won the ball back with a tough tackle, he was determined to do something of note, he looked up, tried to play a through ball to the striker, but he tried too hard, over-hitting the pass straight to the other team's 'keeper.

Everything John did seemed to fail. Over-hit passes, fluffed shots, poor positioning. His brother was right when he said that John might as well have stayed at home; his performance handicapped his team to the extent that they might have been better with just four instead of five players.

John watched as his brother single-handedly kept his team in the game. Just like his life, it seemed that everything George touched on the pitch turned to gold. He had four goals already in this match, each one a masterpiece worthy of the Louvre. There was just one minute remaining and John's team were down by six goals to five. George picked up the ball on the byline, looked to pass it to John, but then shocked everyone on the pitch by flicking the ball up with his heels and pulling off a rainbow-kick, the ball bending over both his and the defender's head like a Nike advert. It bounced once, then George hit it on the half volley. There was never any doubt where it would end up. Six-all.

There was still time for one last chance. The opposition's striker was bearing down on goal. From nowhere, George came in with a last-ditch tackle to save the day. The ball spun away to the opposition's midfielder, who tried his luck from range. He hit it, it was spinning off-target, but straight at John. John turned to try and control it but it was at an awkward height. It hit him right where no man wants to be hit. John fell in agony, his body twisting in pain. His eyes still open saw the new trajectory of the ball, looping past the helpless goalkeeper and into the net. What a way to lose a match.

George stood over his brother and offered a hand, "What the fuck is up with you today?"

odaddy.Pe