The Match

By George Brent

When a minor U.K. football club encounters severe financial problems, Chairman Tom Harmon, in order to fend off bankruptcy, has no choice but to try and sell his beloved club. Marco Capatrone, the club`s recently appointed Marketing Director is entrusted to effect the sale, but he is not what he seems, having identified the opportunity

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Jan 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685153533

George Brent

"A lifelong football enthusiast, George Brent enjoyed a long and successful business career. Now retired, he and his wife live in the US.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

CRISIS

T

he mood in the Boardroom was somber, the worried faces of the four men sitting around the old table reflecting the gravity of the situation.

Prior to the meeting there had been none of the usual lighthearted exchanges: no inquiries regarding the health and well-being of respective family members: no casual stories. There existed only a combined urgency to sit down and get this thing over with as quickly as possible.

The Chairman, sitting in his usual position at the head of the table, studied the dismayed expressions of his assembled co-directors. To his right sat Arthur Burnside and Walter Farley, both men now in their early seventies, who had given him their continuing support for over twenty years.

Arthur was a former Senior Partner of a well regarded local accountancy firm. Wise, yet cautious in the extreme.

Walter had enjoyed a successful career as an international marketing executive. He was the more enterprising of the two; a man of proven sound commercial judgment, on which the Chairman had continued to rely.

Both of these two men had displayed exceptional loyalty to him, undertaking responsibilities allocated to them with enthusiasm and diligence. Arthur had assumed responsibility for overseeing the Club's accounting functions, while Walter had concentrated his energies on various ancillary activities designed to provide much needed revenue streams from non football activities.

Neither man had requested any remuneration for the time and effort they had devoted to the affairs of the Football Club. Their tenure as Directors over so many years, as the fortunes of the Club had continued to deteriorate, was testimony to their commitment, a quality much appreciated by the Chairman.

But the reality was that neither man was in a position to provide any financial input sufficient to help alleviate the Club's financial distress. Both men, whilst being financially secure personally, had no access to any new funding source.

On the other side of the table sat Marco. Marco Capatrone. Marco was an unknown quantity. He had been appointed to the Board less than two months earlier, under very unusual circumstances.

Without an appointment, Marco had one day presented himself at the Football Club with a request for an audience with the Chairman. He had waited patiently for some considerable time, until he had finally been shown into the Chairman's office. Without undue preamble, he had concisely detailed the purpose of his visit.

He was, he had said, the representative of a wealthy international entrepreneur who had a lifelong ambition to own and operate a professional Football Club. The entrepreneur was in the process of relocating his UK manufacturing operations into the Lincolnshire area, on the basis that he perceived considerable financial advantages in so doing. These included the availability of substantial financial incentives applicable to a business moving into an area officially classified as being depressed, a status for which Ashthorpe was clearly well-qualified. The abundance of factory accommodations available at very low rents was, he had been told, a further attraction.

To the point, Capatrone had advised that his associate was considering making an offer to purchase what would become his local Football Club. As a first step, and as a gesture of good faith, he would be prepared to input the sum of ten thousand pounds, on the basis that this would enable the appointment of his representative, he Marco Capatrone, to the Club's Board of Directors, so that the due diligence process could be the more quickly completed. Marco had emphasized that the input of funds would be made without any preconditions, such that if the Offer was not subsequently forthcoming or was not accepted, there would be no requirement of the Club to make any repayment.

The Chairman had, of course, requested that the identity of the would-be purchaser be disclosed, but Capatrone had explained that for the time being, anonymity was a condition of the proposal. He had had no alternative but to accept.

Naturally, he had viewed this unusual approach with considerable suspicion. But the reality was that the Club was in severe financial distress, and the potential of securing immediate additional funding of ten thousand pounds, without preconditions, was difficult to ignore.

In the following days his investigations had revealed no adverse information regarding Capatrone. No criminal record. No pending inquiries regarding dubious trading or commercial activities; in fact, nothing that might indicate anything untoward. The end result was that he and his fellow Directors had unanimously agreed to accept Capatrone's proposal, and upon receipt of the ten thousand pounds wire transfer, he had been appointed to the Board of the Football Club.

Thus far, the Chairman had had no reason to regret the appointment. Marco had whole- heartedly become involved in the Club's affairs, responding enthusiastically and efficiently to all tasks requested of him. That he had, under the circumstances, spent many hours poring over the Club's corporate and financial records, was entirely expected, and had created no suspicion.

But as time had elapsed, and questions of Marco relating to the timing of the incoming offer from his associate continued to bring the same response of ‘the need to be patient,’ doubts had begun to surface. However, recently, Marco had become more positive suggesting that, based on the new information he had gleaned as a result of his due diligence process, his associate was looking increasingly favorably at the potential takeover, going as far as to advise that a firm offer should be forthcoming by early February, now less than three weeks hence.

Today Marco sat at the table, his grim, concerned expression mirroring those of his Boardroom colleagues.

The Chairman opened the meeting. Gentlemen, thank you for your attendance. Today, there is only one item on the Agenda; namely, the resolution of the financial crisis with which the Football Club is now threatened.

First, I’ll give you a concise update as to the Club's financial position. The reality is that we presently have debts aggregating to approximately three hundred and seventy-two thousand pounds, of which the majority are considerably overdue.

The value was, of course, not unexpected, but nevertheless there was a combined loud intake of breath around the table, as the massive figure registered.

The Chairman continued. Of this total, the sum of two hundred and forty-three thousand pounds is owed to her Majesty's Inland Revenue Service. The Tax Man! During the past three years the Club has benefited from the fact that the Revenue's Agent dealing with this matter is himself a very keen football fan. Additionally, he always took into account the importance of this Club as an integral part of a local community which is in serious decline. So we, as a Club, were allowed payment flexibility through very lenient delayed terms. In short, we were allowed to stagger along. But, in fact, we were only delaying the inevitable, as the total debt continued to grow.

He paused, preparing himself for the delivery of even worse news. Unfortunately for us, a couple of months ago our friendly agent retired. His replacement is far less nice and understanding; in fact, an altogether different kettle of fish.

Who is the new man? interjected Walter.

That in itself is the first part of our problem. The new man is, in fact, a woman. A spinster and an inflexible old battle axe. The worst possible scenario for us. I would estimate her age as being in the late fifties. It seems she's just a dedicated professional debt collector with few other interests. Her name is Gladys Herringbottom, and that, I suggest, should in itself give you some idea of just what we’re dealing with.

A smattering of laughter lightened the atmosphere, but the Chairman quickly returned to his dismal analysis.

Gladys has zero interest in football generally, let alone having any sympathy for the plight of our specific Football Club; nor has she any interest in the wider issue of the Club's importance within the local community. The bottom line, for her, is that the Revenue is owed a substantial amount of money, and unless payment is made in accordance with her rigid time scale, she will proceed to put the Club into Administration. That would, of course, spell the end for us.

Walter interrupted. But, keep in mind, in just over one week from now we have a home fixture in the next round of the F.A. Cup. Our opponent is from the upper echelons of the Premier League, so this game will attract a bumper crowd, bringing in considerable gate money. So, surely we can persuade this Gladys woman to give us a little more leeway.

Unfortunately, responded the Chairman, "that's not the case. I’ve already gone down that route with her, and she's decidedly unimpressed. The best deal I’ve been able to broker, is that we pay thirty-percent of the debt two working days after the Cup game. Then another thirty-percent three weeks later, with the balance to be cleared by March the fifteenth.

Silence reigned as the severity of the terms of the deal were assimilated.

Eventually Walter, somewhat optimistically, suggested, If we can win the Cup game and get into the next round, we should be able to count on another good pay-day. So, perhaps, all is not as bad as it first seems.

Arthur immediately interjected. At this stage it's surely essential that we deal in reality rather than rely upon very unlikely fairytale endings. Yes, we can certainly hope for the best, but it must be prudent that we plan for the worst. Realistic decisions need to be made right now.

The Chairman turned hopefully to Marco. Is there any real chance that this deal with your associate can be finalized by the time the second payment to the Revenue falls due in early February.

Marco hesitated. I would like to say ‘yes’ Mr. Chairman, but I can’t be absolutely certain, and it would be wrong of me to raise false hopes. All I can say, for now, is that the vibes I’m getting suggest that a positive decision is imminent. But this is something that I can’t push. I can only urge and cajole. Unfortunately, in the last resort, the decision is not mine.

The Chairman shook his head, sadly. Given this situation of continuing uncertainty, we must now proceed on the basis that the buyout will not materialize by our deadline date. Therefore, we need to establish just how the necessary cash is going to be raised.

It's been the case that, in the past, every time a crisis situation such as this has materialized, my family has always come to the rescue by making a loan to the Football Club.

He paused for effect. To date the value of these loans has accumulated to over twelve million pounds.

Again, although these details were already well known to Arthur and Walter, there was still an audible response as the magnitude of the loans impacted.

But the Chairman quickly proceeded. "The reality is that although the Club's Accounts refer to these monies as loans, in fact they’re really nothing other than gifts. My wife and I accept that there's no possibility that these loans will ever be repaid."

But now, our circumstances dictate that this practice cannot be continued. We’ve both surpassed the eighty-year mark, and we have to accept that our continued intense involvement with the Football Club can’t be sustained for much longer. Apart from our age, unfortunately it's also the case that we can no longer afford to continue to bail out the Club in times such as these. Our own family business is no longer the profitable ‘cash cow’ that it once was, in that increasingly we’ve been affected by the economic decline of the town. Now, our business is worth considerably less than its value of fifteen years ago. The reality is, he added ruefully, that with hindsight we should have accepted one of several very large offers to buy the business made to us all those years ago.

He paused meaningfully. In any event, our decision has now been made. We cannot any longer financially prop up the Club. We are at a stage when we need to take steps to ensure that we can live out our retirement in reasonable comfort, without undue financial pressures.

Nods of understanding and approval were immediately forthcoming from the other Directors.

Eventually, Walter inquired, What precisely do you see as our options?

The Chairman, fully prepared, responded decisively. I’ve given some thirty years of my life to this Football Club and have always prioritized its interest. I’m now determined to exit the Club in a way which will leave it free of debt. It's of major importance to me that I walk away with dignity.

He continued without pause. The reality is that we have no available cash. Nor do we have any physical assets sufficiently liquid for our purpose. The cupboard is bare! The only assets of any immediate value that we have are personnel. I see two distinct opportunities.

The first is our Coach. Undoubtedly, he's very talented, and is largely responsible for the fact that this Club has been able to survive in the Football League. Since his arrival he's been forced to operate on a pitifully low budget. The Club's wage bill is probably the lowest of any Club in the League. For the past three seasons we’ve played with nothing more than a group of enthused youngsters, who’ve graduated through the Youth system that our Coach established very early in his tenure. His work ethic on behalf of this Club has been amazing.

Of course, as time has gone on, other Clubs have come to realize his talent and worth. During the past year, every time a coaching vacancy has cropped up, and there have, of course, been several of these, his name has been routinely suggested as a likely candidate. Fortunately, as you know, Coach Halliburton is on a rolling three-year contract with us, so that we’re protected from approaches from other Clubs. But, our Coach has a value, which we could realize by accepting a fee in return for us allowing his contract to be prematurely ended. I believe that we could raise in excess of one hundred thousand pounds, if we’re prepared to proceed in this way.

But, unfortunately for us, the timing is all wrong. Presently I’m unaware of any coaching vacancies which might be attractive to our Coach, and of course, our need is now and not in a few months time.

Arthur interjected sharply. But necessarily there would be another major problem with the solution you’ve just outlined. If we lose Coach Halliburton, how would we replace him? I would respectfully suggest that if he leaves, the future status of this Club as a Football League member would be seriously jeopardized. In my view, given our precarious financial standing, we would be unlikely to attract any half decent replacement. My position is that that this solution should not be considered.

The Chairman nodded ruefully. I cannot but agree. And that's why I personally favor the second solution.

"Presently we have on our books one exceptional young player, Michael Emmerson, universally known as The Kid."

He now addressed Marco, directly, Michael came here at barely seventeen-years-old, at the specific urging of our Coach.

He laughed as he reminisced, I recall that at the time we expended the mega transfer sum of one thousand two hundred pounds to obtain his services. Coach Halliburton insisted, from the outset, that with quality professional training and personal coaching, this youngster would grow into an outstanding footballer, who, in due course, would attain a substantial worth as a transfer target.

"For some months now we’ve been receiving tentative approaches for The Kid from various lower League clubs. But coach Halliburton has insisted that by remaining patient we’ll see his value rise sharply. Unfortunately, we’re now at a time when we simply cannot afford to remain patient any longer. The Kid has to be sold. To transfer him now could be the only way we can save this Club from extinction."

There was silence for a while, until Walter questioned, "What sort of value do you think The Kid will command in today's market, Tom? We surely need to keep in mind the depressed state of the British economy generally, as well as the declining fortunes of many Football League clubs. So, it's probably not the best time for us to sell."

I agree Walter, responded the Chairman, but even in this unfavorable economic climate, on the basis of earlier approaches this season, I think we may be able to get somewhere near half a million.

Arthur interjected promptly. I personally think that this value may be overstated, and therefore given our need to be cautious, we should assume a value considerably less than this. We must surely assume a worst case scenario.

The Chairman considered. I think the worst case number that we can rely upon is three hundred thousand. This was in fact an offer that we rejected only a couple of months ago. If we’re able to realize this value then we’ll be in a position to pay off our debts, assuming, of course, that we also get the expected gate money from the forthcoming Cup game.

He went on. If this scenario proves to be accurate, at that point I’ll formally write off the full value of my family's personal loans to the Club. If, however, there is any surplus, I would expect the Club to reimburse these monies to my family, by way of a nominal repayment of the loans. He smiled ironically, I suppose something will be better than nothing.

Then I would intend to offer the Club for sale, either to Marco's associate, or if this falls through, to any other qualified buyer who might step forward and be able to demonstrate the sufficient financial wherewithal to take the Club forward.

Marco had made little contribution to the discussion thus far. Now he interjected sharply. "Mr. Chairman, with great respect, I believe that you are being unduly pessimistic. You are overlooking what I personally can bring to the table. I have many contacts in the Game, including some at Clubs in the higher leagues. If you give me the opportunity, I believe I’ll be able to use these contacts to good effect, so that we can secure a transfer for The Kid at a price significantly higher than your very low ball-park figure."

The room went silent, as all eyes turned to Marco, viewing him with a mixture of suspicion and hope.

With growing confidence, Marco carried on, My suggestion, Mr. Chairman, is that you give me until immediately after the Cup game next weekend to come up with a meaningful transfer proposal. What do you have to lose? he challenged, If I’m successful, then both the Club, and you personally will gain enormously. The Club's debts will be cleared, and you’ll have a meaningful additional sum to take into your retirement. On the other hand, if I fail to deliver, then you’ve lost nothing, other than seven days of wasted time.

Silence returned as the implications of Marco's intervention were considered.

Eventually the Chairman responded. During your brief tenure as a Director of this Football Club, Marco, you’ve certainly impressed us with your enthusiastic contributions and diligence. Whilst the potential seven days of lost time, should you fail to deliver, is perhaps of more significance than you allow, we cannot ignore the considerable potential upside of your proposal. I think you well deserve this opportunity.

He turned to the other two directors questioningly. Neither voiced an objection.

The Chairman looked around the table. Let me summarize the actions that we’ve now agreed upon, after which we can take a formal vote.

Firstly, we’ll notify the Revenue of our intent to observe the repayment terms put before us.

Secondly, we’ll put into progress efforts to sell our player, Michael Emmerson.

Thirdly, monies raised from the transfer will be used to pay off the Club's debts. Any surplus will be used to repay to my family a very small portion of their outstanding loans to the Club.

Fourthly, at that point the Club will be put up for sale, and following a successful conclusion I will sever my formal connections.

"Lastly, the initial efforts to secure the transfer will be undertaken by Mr. Capatrone. In the event that he has not achieved a satisfactory outcome by next Saturday evening, then we’ll widen our transfer efforts, by circulating the availability of The Kid to all League Clubs."

He looked around the table. All those in favor? Four hands, including his own, were promptly raised.

After Arthur had promised a rapid circulation of the Minutes, the Chairman declared the Meeting closed.

The other Directors having departed, the Chairman retired into the adjacent Director's Lounge. Fortified by a generous shot of Dewars Scotch, he settled into a comfortable armchair to review what had gone before.

On the negative side, he was much saddened by the fact that he had now formally committed to his intended exit from his beloved Football Club. The Club which had been the fulcrum of his life for so long. But the reality, he fully understood, was that no alternatives were open to him. Also in the negative column was the knowledge that he had agreed to the sale of the Club's major asset, Michael Emmerson, almost certainly before he had reached his full potential. But again, he knew that he had been left with no other options.

But on the positive side, he was comfortable that he had devised a strategy which would enable him to walk away from the Club with dignity, his head held high, in the knowledge that the Club would be free of debt. Certainly. his private wealth had been severely diminished by his obsession with the affairs of the Club, but he was sure that he and his wife, Annie, would still have the means to enjoy a comfortable retirement.

A more pressing problem was the need to advise Coach Halliburton of the decision to proceed to transfer his protégé. He could well imagine the man's immense disappointment. His likely feeling of betrayal. Of disillusionment. This, he knew, was a confrontation which would have to be handled very delicately.

He carefully considered the timing of his announcement, first favoring an immediate informal meeting to gently break the news. But, he questioned, to what good purpose would this be? Such a move, he reasoned, had the potential to destabilize the Club immediately prior to its most important match in more than a decade.

Finally, he decided that the best policy would be to delay the notification until after the forthcoming Cup match. Hopefully, during that game, The Kid would again display his enormous talent, so that Coach Halliburton would, at least, have had the satisfaction of seeing his protégé come of age. Surely, at that point, his explanation as to just why the transfer could not be any longer delayed would be understood, and ultimately accepted.

His mind then turned to Marco Capatrone. Since his appointment to the Board, there had been nothing to indicate any mal intent. No missteps. Only positive enthusiasm. So why, he wondered, did he still have this gnawing doubt at the back of his mind? Just where was this feeling of an impending disaster coming from?

He shrugged his shoulders. Yes, he assured himself, his doubts had no basis in fact; he was just being over anxious…. but yet? He comforted himself in the knowledge that the next seven days would reveal Marco's worth. A big achiever, as self-proclaimed? Or a mere talker? Either way, he concluded, nothing would be lost during this short time span.

Meanwhile, Marco made his way back to his car, inwardly elated, but somehow managing to maintain his somber external demeanor. Exiting the car park he could no longer contain himself. His smile broadened, before he ultimately broke into uncontrollable laughter. How easy this has been! Marco, he trilled aloud, You are an absolute genius. A world class strategist.

As he drove, he allowed himself the pleasure of looking back upon his successful achievement. Several months ago he had astutely identified the dire financial circumstances of Ashthorpe United Football Club. Then, his further investigation had revealed how this could facilitate a hugely lucrative opportunity for himself, if he could somehow gain control of the Club. As a first step towards this goal, he had proceeded to devise a simple plan to enable him to acquire a Directorship of the Club, and this had allowed him to further investigate, and ultimately to confirm, the validity of his initial findings.

Today everything had fallen into place. The Club's massive debt had been acknowledged as had its imminent nose-dive into potential oblivion. And he, the magnificent Marco Capatrone, had positioned himself perfectly to pick up the pieces. He controlled his own destiny.

He guffawed loudly as he gloated over the simplicity of his scheme. He almost felt sorry for the senile old fart of a Chairman who had been so easily manipulated, unable to see beyond the end of his nose. He had been further aided by the sheer ignorance of the two other decrepit Directors, both of whom were, he knew, well beyond their respective sell-by dates.

He congratulated himself yet again. This was, he concluded, an unfair contest. Just a real man against mere boys!

Now, he made his phone call which was almost instantly answered. Everything went to plan he stated. It was all too easy.

The reply was prompt. I’m ready. Let's get to it.

CHAPTER 2

DESPAIR

F

inishing his Dewars, Thomas Harmon gazed wistfully through the large plate glass windows at what remained of his empire. The sight filled him with sadness and regret. A dilapidated stadium neglected and run down, the lack of routine maintenance evident at every point.

Outside, it was bitterly cold and overcast as rain threatened. He thought about fortifying himself with another shot of Dewars but, enticing as this thought appeared, given his impending drive home, he decided against it. Rather, undeterred by the inclement weather, he stood and donned his heavy winter coat and fur-lined hat before leaving the warmth of the room and making his way outside to the unenclosed Directors Box. There he sat quietly in his, the Chairman's, clearly identified seat. A once highly prestigious position. A seat which he had occupied as of right for over twenty-five years.

He looked carefully around the deserted stadium, but, as expected, he found nothing there which would lighten his downcast mood. Around him, on all sides, was evidence of prolonged neglect. A once much admired and prestigious arena now in a state of advanced decay, barely fit for its purpose. Resigned, he accepted that the decision made at the Board Meeting was the only way forward; the only possible exit by which he could retain some dignity and self-respect.

But it had not always been thus. Now he allowed himself the luxury of reminiscing, turning his mind back to those wondrous days of yesteryear. This exercise in futility was, he thought, his right to enjoy.

His long deceased father, William Harmon, a successful local businessman and an avid sports fan, had acquired the Club very cheaply when the previous owner was down on his luck and the Club was struggling to survive in a minor semi-professional League. Initially he had had no serious long-term ambitions for the Club, just content to boast of being its owner and happy to enjoy its occasional modest successes.

But then had begun the era of the local Steel Industry boom, which had galvanized the nondescript town of Ashthorpe into an industrial area of national significance.

The three huge Steel Mills, their owners attracted to the area by the nearby deep seaport of Immingham, which facilitated low transportation costs of both imported iron ore and export of its finished steel products, had expanded rapidly. In just a few short years Ashthorpe had been transformed from a quiet town of some seventy thousand, into a metropolis of over two hundred thousand.

His father's business had been that of a builders merchant and as the town expanded and the demand for new housing rocketed ever upward, he had prospered to a degree that he could never have imagined. The housing boom was immense. Row upon row of cheaply constructed boxes, design flair and build quality sacrificed for speed of construction and convenience.

As his profits had grown, so had his father's ambitions for his beloved Football Club expanded. The Club had achieved promotion to the Football League and from those humble beginnings had steadily climbed the Tables until finally arriving in the Championship Division, just one step away from the Premiership. A brand new stadium had been built with a capacity of twenty-six thousand, the imposing arena frequently being filled to capacity for its home games. Giddy heights indeed!

It was at this time that his father had handed over the reins to him. It was with immense pride that he had assumed control, determined to build on the platform so lovingly created, and to drive his Club to even greater heights.

But this was not to be. It transpired that his ascent to the football throne had coincided with the wholly unexpected collapse of the local Steel Industry. Ashthorpe's fall from grace was almost as rapid as had been its rise to eminence.

At its peak the three Mills had employed over fifty-thousand blue collar workers, with thousands more working in administrative positions. Then there were the myriad of small local businesses feeding gratefully on the orders endlessly pouring forth by the mighty Mills.

Ashthorpe. A beacon of success, in the modern world. Prosperity for all, guaranteed.

Until it wasn’t….

The decline had initially been so small as to be barely noticed. Just one or two minor export orders lost to upstart competitors located in the New World. Inconvenient maybe, but ignored as just a minor blip along the road to continuing massive success.

But the pace of competition had rapidly escalated. New efficiently designed Mills incorporating state-of-the-art equipment were springing up, seemingly, everywhere. The developing countries of the world; the old Soviet Bloc countries in Eastern Europe, China, India and various countries in South America. And all of these boasted a weapon which was impossible for the old Ashthorpe behemoths to compete against; much reduced manning levels and a far lower wage cost structure.

The result was that price levels for finished steel products fell sharply around the world, a trend which could only accelerate. For the Mills of Ashthorpe, the loss of orders was no longer occasional, but had quickly become almost routine. A trickle became a steady flow before becoming an unstoppable torrent.

The local Mill owners, cushioned by years of easily earned profits, had been far too slow to react. The outrageous demands of the Trade Unions for year on year huge pay rises for all workers, never meaningfully aligned to increased productivity, had never been seriously challenged. The result had been massively rising production costs, spiraling out of control.

But why rock the boat! Rising costs, in a market in which demand had far exceeded supply capacity had always been readily covered by price increases, which they had routinely been able to secure from hard pressed customers. Far too late came the realization that almost overnight those days of guaranteed affluence had gone forever.

Belatedly, the three Ashthorpe mills had recognized the absolute need to reduce their production cost base, eventually merging in a desperate effort to gain major cost saving through the elimination of a triplicated administrative and operational structure. But all of this was far too little, and far too late. Predictably, despite the occasional item of good news, the decline of the local Industry had gathered pace.

The result imposed a penalty too hard to bear. Closures and massive job losses within the Mills, year after year, accompanied by the demise of the smaller ancillary support Companies for whom regular orders from the Mills had dried up. A boom town reduced to one of gloom and outright despair.

Alongside this, his once very prosperous Builders Merchants business had come under increasing pressure. Demand from ‘new build’ projects had quickly dried up, with many local builders having declared bankruptcy, leaving him with a mountain of bad debts. Now, the business was barely surviving, dependent mainly upon D.I.Y. projects from those lucky enough to remain employed.

From its peak of two hundred and twenty thousand, the Ashthorpe population had shrunk to little more than one-hundred thousand in just fifteen years, so that today the town was on its knees.

No hope!

No future!

Automatically, as the fortunes of the town declined, so had those of his Football Club. Gates for home games had fallen significantly year on year without respite, to a current average of barely three thousand ardent fans. At this level financial self-sustenance was an impossibility.

It was with increasing regularity he had been forced to make ever greater loans just to ensure the survival of the Club. But these were loans in name only, for deep down he understood that they would never be repaid.

In response he had imposed a draconian cost cutting regime. The Club's wage bill had been slashed. Previous policies of trying to recruit experienced players of quality, abandoned. Ambitions of success on the field made secondary to mere survival.

But to no avail. The pace of decline remained unrelenting, as he was forced to watch the disintegration of his once proud football empire, unable to intervene.

He had given of his best. But his best had not been enough. He knew only too well that in any business, in the last resort, ‘Cash is always King’ And he had run out of cash. He had nothing left to give. Today he sat here humbled and distressed.

Defeated!

Finally he forced himself to abandon his reverie and to face reality. It was by now raining steadily, but he cared not. He slowly descended the empty terraces and walked out onto the pitch, making his way to the Center Circle. There, he slowly pivoted around so that he could take in the full spectrum of his once vibrant empire. But there was no longer anything there to excite. A dilapidated structure, now appropriately deserted, almost falling down before his eyes. He shed a few tears, before turning away.

Very deliberately, uncaring that he was by now soaked to the skin, he trudged back to the sidelines. Disillusioned, he shuffled down the players tunnel. The tunnel, which in glorious years past, had seen the approach to the field of play of his talented team about to be rapturously welcomed by a packed arena of adoring fans, expecting nothing less than another victorious outcome.

But no more!

That was yesterday!

Today was his reality!

Thomas Harmon walked steadily across the deserted car park. He was finished here. He did not turn around. He climbed into his car and started the engine. It was time to go.

CHAPTER 3

THE KID

B

ack in the day, Steven Haliburton had enjoyed a hugely successful career as a professional footballer. Very promising and much admired in his youth, he had slowly graduated through the junior ranks, seamlessly representing his Country at several levels as dictated by age constraints. It had been a natural development that, by the time of his early twenties, he was playing regularly for Broughton Rovers in the upper echelons of the Premier league. By the age of twenty-five, he had climbed to near the top of his elected sport, his future filled with untold opportunities both in the UK and abroad.

Until one miserable, wet December afternoon his world had collapsed around him in a little more than a few seconds. Playing in front of almost eighty thousand baying partisan fans at the new stadium of Tilmington Hotspurs, he had been in imperious form, such that by half time he had already scored twice. But then, immediately after the restart, he had been challenged as he attacked the ball. The challenge had been hard but fair, an innocuous tackle with no malicious intent, of a kind that is an inherent part of every game. As he had fallen, his leg had twisted beneath him, and immediately he had been acutely aware that he had suffered a serious injury.

He had been in excruciating pain, screaming his agony as he pounded the turf. It was in a haze that he had recollected being carried from the field on a stretcher as the noise in the stadium faded to silence, the fans of both teams fully understanding the gravity of his injury.

The initial medical prognosis, following the taking of many X rays and scans, had been optimistic. Yes, there was serious damage to the cruciate ligament of his left knee, but surgery would result in a full recovery. He had been confidently assured by his surgeon, that his long term playing career would not be jeopardized, although there would be a period of many months before he could again begin the serious training necessary for his comeback.

At first his recovery had appeared to be going to plan. Slowly, he had been allowed to commence basic exercises in the gymnasium, designed to strengthen his damaged knee and to ensure the retention of his general muscle tone. Then he had graduated to slow jogging on the training pitches, before finally, some eight months after his injury, he had been allowed to begin faster workouts.

But what had then become immediately apparent was that whilst everything appeared fine when he sprinted in a straight line, as soon as he had attempted to turn at pace he had experienced a sharp pain within his damaged knee, which had caused him to pull up in mid stride. His surgeon had confidently advised that this was a normal reaction, and that as he continued to train, the knee would naturally strengthen and the problem would go away.

But it had not. More training had simply enhanced the level of pain and his general discomfort.

Eventually, he had been referred by his Club to a highly recommended Sports Doctor in the Netherlands, who had conducted a series of detailed tests. He vividly recalled the meeting in the office of this Specialist at which the results of the tests would be provided. At once he had sensed that the news was not good. The Specialist had carefully explained to him, in kindly yet ominous tones, that the original surgery had been seriously botched, and that by attempting to resume his training on a knee which had been inadequately repaired, he had in fact inflicted serious further damage on this crucial joint. A further operation, he had been told, would eliminate the pain during normal activities, and indeed would allow some minor exercise, but it was certainly the case that his knee would never again be strong enough to withstand the physical demands that are an integral part of professional football.

He had been devastated. Only in his mid-twenties and at the height of his physical prowess, his outstanding career had been brought to a grinding halt, at the hand of professional medical incompetency.

Following the second operation, he had found that he could, in fact, move more easily and without pain, just as the Dutch physician had projected. For a while he had even attempted to begin some light training in the hope that miraculously, a complete recovery would occur. But it had quickly become apparent that all such hopes had no basis in reality. Reluctantly, he had had no option but to accept that his beloved career was over. He was finished, even before he had really begun. He had been totally devastated.

The following months had comprised many weeks of mental turmoil which he now wished to forget. Weeks of moping around. Of bitterness and recriminations, and worst of all of feeling sorry for himself. He had no idea what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. Nor at that time was he prepared to give it any serious consideration.

Fortunately he was financially very sound. He had carefully invested a significant proportion of his growing earnings, and his insurance policy had provided a large end of career payout. But that had been small compensation. His wife of some four years, Althea, had been resolute, an absolute rock in her support as she had endlessly encouraged him. His Football Club also had acted in the most honorable way, continuing to pay his salary for a period well beyond the accepted norm. But for him he was no longer living. Now he had just existed, almost without knowing that he was alive, enjoying nothing and unable to contemplate any future.

But then an event had occurred which would change everything. One morning he had been summoned to the Chairman's office. His first thought had been that he was about to be completely axed from the Club’ s payroll, and really he had cared not one way or the other. But these thoughts had proven to be unworthy.

The Chairman had begun by acknowledging his superior football skills and his extensive knowledge of the game, before thanking him for his long-term service to the Club. Then, unexpectedly, he had suggested to him the possibility of commencing a new career in Coaching. The Club, he had been told, was about to begin the process of recruiting a new Coach for its Under 18 junior team, but if he was interested, this position would be offered to him.

At first he had been very dubious, but encouraged by Althea, he had finally, if somewhat reluctantly, agreed to give it a try. In short order he had found himself actively involved again in the game that he had loved for so long.

To his considerable surprise, he had quickly found that this was a job he thoroughly enjoyed. He had been able to immerse himself in working with young talent whose careers he could directly influence, by passing on the knowledge that he had gained during his own illustrious career. He also found that he had an ability to organize a team, to decide tactics in an astute manner and thereby to directly influence the outcome of a match.

Slowly he had come to realize that he had regained a purpose in life. At last he had emerged from the doldrums of outright despair. He was alive again. He had a future.

As he began to succeed, his ambitions widened. His next step he knew would be to gain experience by managing a professional team in one of the lower leagues, and thus two years later he had begun to make applications for vacant Head Coach positions.

A number of job offers had been made to him, but these he had rejected in the knowledge that he needed to find a Club not driven by the need to achieve immediate success, but one where he would be given reasonable time to establish a solid platform on which to build for the longer term.

He had been in no hurry. Patience, he had believed, was an essential virtue. Eventually he had applied for the position of Head Coach at Ashthorpe United, a team flailing in the lower half of the bottom division of the Football League, but who boasted a Chairman who, various of his contacts had advised, had exactly the personal qualities and ambitions which he was seeking. The interview had gone well. At once he had liked the demeanor of the elderly Chairman, a man who had held this position for over twenty years, and who very clearly had a great love for his Club.

He had also much admired the Chairman's openness, and his honesty. He had attempted to hide nothing, and when asked what monies would be available for incoming transfers, he had laughed heartily before replying, None - unless we can first transfer one of our own players for at least an equivalent fee.

But whilst acknowledging that the Club would have to be operated on a miniscule budget, the Chairman had promised that as Head Coach he would be given time to make a success of his appointment, emphasizing that no unrealistic performance demands would be made of him. Rather, he had been told, that to maintain his team in a mid-table position in the first couple of years would represent a very satisfactory performance.

It had taken him no time at all to accept the position offered. He had not been deterred by the necessary financial constraints that must be applied, confident that he could work within the limits that had been laid out. More importantly, he had felt a kinship with his new Chairman, believing that the two of them would be able to enjoy a harmonious working relationship. That the new position would be an ideal opportunity for him to operate in an environment in which he would be the master of his own destiny, had been all he could have hoped for.

This had proven to be a career decision that he had never had cause to regret. The first couple of years may have been hard going, but solid progress had been made. He was enjoying every minute of his new life.

Early in his tenure, he had established a Scouting Network designed to spot young talent which could be developed to advantage. In the larger Clubs such Scouts would be well remunerated, including a generous reimbursement of travel and other costs, but at Ashthorpe Scouts did their spotting solely on the basis of their love for the game. No monies changed hands. A number of his Scouts were retired School Sports Masters, and unfortunately a proportion of these had delusions as to their ability to recognize real talent. But a couple of the blokes were different. They really did have a good eye.

One such chap was an elderly long retired headmaster, Arnold Thraxton. Thus far, he had directed two young boys to the Club, who had continued to show genuine ability. Then, out of the blue on one cold November Saturday evening some three years ago, Arnie had called him at home. Usually laid back, on this occasion Arnie had appeared hugely excited. Coach, he had almost yelled, I’ve just seen a real talent. You really have got to take a look at this boy. He's just seventeen and playing for Rainsborough Trinity in the Northern Premier League.

He had reacted cautiously, but given Arnie's prolonged exuberance coupled with his proven decent talent spotting record, he had agreed to meet with him to watch that team's next home game on the following Wednesday evening.

He had duly arrived at the dilapidated stadium, the evening being wet and windy, the pitch a quagmire. Fewer than two hundred hardy souls had bothered to pay the entrance money to watch what appeared to be a contest between two average mid-table sides with little at stake. He had stood with Arnie in what was called the West Stand, but which was in fact little more than a glorified Nissan Hut, unfriendly, and offering almost zero protection from the elements.

So, Arnie, he had inquired, just who's the marvel of the day?

Arnie had laughed. In an hour's time you’ll not be taking this so frivolously, Coach. There’ll be no need for me to tell you who you’re here to look at. You’ll spot him inside the first three minutes.

And so it had proved. Immediately The Kid's presence had stood out like a beacon. Lanky at over six feet tall, and very lean, he had cut an impressive athletic figure. But it was his close control of the football which excited. His was a natural talent. A joy to behold, amongst his modest, plodding peers. His anticipation and reading of the game was outstanding, with the result that he appeared to have time on the ball that was denied to all others. He was lithe, his long stride allowing him to cover the ground effortlessly and at a deceptive pace, the horrendous muddy conditions of the playing surface notwithstanding.

His lone drawback appeared to be his lack of bodily strength. In this tough league physicality was a prime, indeed a very essential quality, and hence the young man was frequently fouled, and knocked to the ground by unfair challenges, which went unpunished by a young and clearly inexperienced referee. But noticeably, on all such occasions, The Kid made no complaint or attempted any retaliation. He was quickly back to his feet, and getting on with the game.

Within only thirty minutes of the commencement of the game, the Coach had turned to Arnie, Time for us to go.

Arnie was amazed. Coach, you mean to tell me you can’t recognize just how good this kid is?

Look Arnie, I’m freezing cold, wet through and famished. Why should I stay here when I’ve seen enough to be sure that this kid is a rare talent. The real deal. Somehow, we’re going to have to sign him. I’ll be meeting with the Chairman first thing in the morning,

During their short walk back to the car park, Arnie had advised that he knew that Rainsborough was a Club in serious financial difficulties, such that a low ball offer of, perhaps, one thousand five hundred quid would likely secure a deal. He further advised that he had already discovered that The Kid was a student, and that he was being paid just forty-five quid a game by Rainsborough.

They had shaken hands before he climbed into his car. Arnie, you could have well hit the jackpot with this kid. Great job, had been his parting words.

Arnie had simply grinned his gratitude. Sufficient it was for him to know that his gift for spotting talent had again been fully recognized and appreciated.

The Coach had driven home almost in a trance. Euphoric. He inherently knew that this kid was something very special. He could well be the means through which, in due course, the fortunes of Ashthorpe United would be significantly changed for the better, and that his reputation, as a Coach, would be enhanced to a completely new level.

Excited, he had arrived home to share his news with his wife, Althea. Only as he drove into his garage did it dawn on him that he did not even know the name of the young man. So for now, he would have to be known as The Kid. How could he have known that this would be a handle which would become a permanent identity!

The following morning, he had called the Chairman early, requesting a meeting as a matter of priority. He had declined to proffer any further information, understanding that for maximum impact he needed to present this professionally, and in person.

Early in the afternoon the two men had sat together and he had described the circumstances of his attendance at the previous night's game. He had tried hard to make his presentation in a dispassionate yet orderly way, but this had become increasingly impossible as his excitement had surfaced, and soon enough he had been enthusing, barely having time to draw breath.

The Chairman had laughed, calming him down.

Am I to understand, Steven, that maybe, just maybe, you liked the look of this kid? he had asked innocently.

Sheepishly, Steven had acknowledged that he had indeed got carried away. But this is a player we just have to sign. He can be ours for less than two Grand. A nothing fee in today's transfer market. We can’t let him slip though the net.

The Chairman had