Soccer Coach 2004

Chapter Eighteen: Same Old Ajax, Always Cheating.

"Sorry for the late call, I had one crazy night. Did you win?"

"Two-nil, comfortable really. Next up is Ajax. So, what happened to you?"

"Well, there were togas and shots, and now my head hurts like hell," Jamie explained.

John's first match had gone like clockwork. His Inter Milan side had made short work of Celtic, and if they could get a win over Ajax they would be through to the next round. John was a little disappointed that Jamie couldn't be there. The dark, smoky internet café in North London, booked out for the competition, hardly felt like a venue for the tournament that would decide the best Soccer Coach player in the world. The only admission that the tournament was even taking place was a small banner at the entrance, next to some posters for the latest action game and a reminder that it was illegal to try and download music from the café's outdated computers. John's booth had three seats in it, two of which were empty. He had discussed his team with Jamie already. A classic 4-4-2 diamond, very unusual for this competition, but it allowed his Inter side to pass the ball around with ease, and also allowed Veron, the cornerstone of the team, to play to his best ability.

Inter Milan started the match strongly, passing through Ajax as if they were playing against holograms. Suddenly, a rash challenge came in from Steven Pienaar. Edgar Davids went down injured, it looked like a broken leg, John's key creative midfielder out of the competition. Pienaar picked up a yellow card for his troubles and a few minutes later was sent off for a dangerous tackle on Adriano. Stankovic was the next victim; on the receiving end of a late de Jong challenge, he limped off and had to be replaced. Inter scored from the resulting free kick, and went two-nil up just before half-time after Obefemi Martins was brought down in the penalty area. Two-nil at half time was a good scoreline, but the pitch resembled a murder scene. John phoned Jamie. He needed some advice, but there was no answer. He tried again.

"Hi John, is it half-time already?"

"They're killing me out there, I've already had to use all three substitutes, it's like Ajax have been programmed to play rugby!"

John heard some typing through the phone's speakers, he waited, watching the seconds tick away until the start of the second half.

"Your opponent, Jordan Black, is known for playing elegant, on-the-deck football. This change in style doesn't sound like him at all, and it doesn't fit the Ajax players. With the exception of de Jong, none of them are particularly good at the physical game."

John's fears had been confirmed. Somebody was trying to sabotage him.

The second half started off with Cambiasso on the receiving end of another rough tackle. John tried to adapt his strategy, telling the players to bypass the midfield in the hope that Veron and Zanetti could escape the worst of the challenges. It wasn't long before Ajax received a second red card, for a dangerous tackle on Adriano. The Brazilian survived the tackle, but was soon forced off himself after picking up an injury. The game finished four-nil to Inter, but it also finished, due to injuries as well as suspensions, with just seventeen players on the pitch.

John was furious.

As soon as the final whistle blew, he sprung up from his seat and marched straight over to Jordan Black's console.

"What the hell was that?" he shouted, "Who put you up to this?"

Jordan Black just looked at him, "Hey man, you won didn't you? You should be happy, I only played the tactics that I thought were best."

He wasn't even trying to hide his guilt, the large grin on his face giving away that something was up. John felt like punching his lights out right there and then. "Whatever you're playing at, it'll come back to bite you, that's for sure."

John left the console, still imagining that he was punching Jordan Black's smirk until all his teeth came out. He left the café, crossed the road, and walked straight into the nearest pub.

"A pint of lager and a double whisky," he said, trying to control his breathing. The barman gave him a look that suggested mid-afternoon was a bit early for a double whisky, but he said nothing.

For the final group game, John put out his reserve side, he had no choice really given the number of injuries he had. The reserves lost one-nil to Chelsea and John finished second in the group. He had reached the semi-finals, but would have to take on Barcelona, a tricky proposition at the best of times, but now almost impossible without his key players.

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