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Dear
Gaffer
I
have lately come
to learn that
fruits of success
can themselves
bear the seeds of
new problems. I am
the manager of a
small South Seas
nation's
international
football side.
Last week we had
to play the
Aussies in a World
Cup qualifier, and
everyone was
expecting them to
put a cricket
score past us.
Things
got even worse for
us the day before
the game. It
turned out that
most of our team
didn't have
passports, and
under FIFA rules
we couldn't use
them for the
match. Instead, I
had to trawl the
island and finally
managed to
assemble a motley
crew of eleven to
tog out for their
country. I use the
words "tog
out"
figuratively,
because the local
FA actually forgot
to buy us any kit
for the match.
Anyway,
that day, the
Aussies faced a
selection of the
local schoolboys,
one pensioner, and
a couple of women.
As I say, the
Aussies were being
touted to
slaughter us, but
I fired up the
team before the
kick-off with a
rousing team talk,
and we played a
blinder. At the
final whistle, the
Aussies had only
managed to put 31
goals past us. I
was dead chuffed.
The
government laid on
a ticker-tape
parade for us, and
I've been treated
as a hero ever
since. The problem
is, Gaffer, that
the players are
getting too used
to the high life.
I'm afraid the
when the next game
comes around, we
won't be in the
right frame of
mind, and we'll
get hammered.
What
do you suggest?
T.
Langkilde
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| Langkilde's
trouble in Paradise...
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| The
Gaffer replies...
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Hey,
"T"
Yeah, I saw
the highlights of your match on
Eurosport. Well done - you really
stuck it to the Aussies!
I understand
your problem, mate. Every top
manager needs some way of motivating
the players once they're used to the
high life. I remember when I was
with Finnish club My Paa, we signed
a little Eskimo bloke called
Nanikotryk as left back. Handy on
the ball, he was, and very reliable.
He'd had it tough up in the Arctic
Circle, hunting seal and polar bear,
and fishing for herring through
holes in the ice. Lived in an igloo,
without any telly, booze, or birds
to speak of, unless you count the
lady in the neighbouring igloo, who
by all accounts had a boat like the
young Jimmy Tarbuck's, which is not
anyone's cup of tea.
He was spotted
by a talent scout from My Paa at the
age of 22 during a trip to Santaland
as he protected Santa from a
snowball attack by a gang of young
whippersnappers, volleying their
snowballs away with his sweet left
peg.
Anyway, he was
a hit at My Paa, and soon he was
being feted all around town - free
drinks, gratis admission to any
night club, an unlimited supply of
dolly birds. It wasn't long before
his motivation began to fade. His
form suffered, and I was beginning
to think about giving him his
marching orders back to the North
Pole. I gave him a few stern
dressings down, but it was no good.
It all came to an untimely end for
young Nanikotryk. He fell in with
the wrong crowd, missed several
training sessions in a row, and was
put on the police missing persons
list. We thought we'd seen the last
of him.
However, the
horror was just beginning. A few
months later, I turned on the telly
one evening, and there was
Nanikotryk looking right at me. It
turned out he'd caught the eye of
someone at Finnish television, and
they'd given him a 10-year contract
to host the Finnish version of The
Lyrics Board. The horror of it was
too much for me. I prepared a new CV
the very next day, and within a
couple of months, I was on my way to
the South Seas to manage Vanuatu.
My point is,
you've got to get in there early and
keep 'em on the straight and narrow.
Otherwise, there's no telling what
terrible things will happen.
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| Dear
Gaffer |
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My
problem is a simple
one, yet one that is
difficult to solve.
My team has a
congested fixture
list coming up the
the end of the
season. We've
already won a minor
cup competition, but
we're still in two
others. In addition,
we're going for a
Champions' League
spot next season.
The players are
getting tired, and
the results are
suffering.
What
can I do to deal
with the fixture
congestion?
Gerard
H.
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The
Gaffer replies...
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Dear
Gerard
I
feel for you,
mate.
I
had the same
problem as a young
apprentice at
Burton Albion. We
were coming up to
the end of the
season, trying to
head off
relegation from
the Vauxhall
Conference, and we
had to play three
matches in twelve
days.
Now,
I was a young lad,
full of energy,
and the thought
didn't bother me
one bit. Some of
the older lads,
though, were
struck dumb with
fear. One or two
even started
crying when they
heard that the
manager had failed
to get the games
rescheduled.
You
see, the lads was
fond of a bit of
nosh and a tipple.
A typical weekday
at Burton Albion
ran like
this:
- up
in the morning
at 10AM,
straight into
the club
canteen for
sausage, fried
eggs and beans
out on the
training field
at 11AM for an
hour's
kickabout
- back
in at 12, get
changed, off
down the High
Street to Mrs
Heathcote's
Greasy Spoon
for steak and
onions with
chips (she had
a special rate
for Albion
players and
staff)
- into
the Striped
Griffin at 2PM
for a couple
of pints of
bitter. Into
the local
Ladbroke's for
3PM to wager a
couple of quid
- back
to the club
for 3:30, onto
the training
field for 4PM
for another
hour's
kickabout
- back
to the pub for
5:30
- get
home well
hammered for
midnight
Worked
like clockwork, it
did, our routine
at the
Albion.
Only
trouble was, most
of the players
were a touch on
the unfit side. In
fact, our star
midfielder,
26-year old Tommy
"Stormer"
Haycock, who was
five foot nine,
weighed about
seventeen stone.
Had
trouble breathing
at the best of
times, what with
all the weight
pressing down on
him, but when he
was on the field,
he coughed and
wheezed like one
of them victims of
mustard gas me
uncle used to tell
me about.
Thing
was, he was too
important a player
to be dropped. He
struggled badly
through the first
two games. We
needed to win the
last game to stay
up, and it was 0-0
in the 90th
minute.
Then
we had a corner.
Tommy ran into the
box as it was
being taken,
leaped high,
caught the ball
clean in the
belly. The ball
rebounded off all
the highly elastic
fatty tissue and
rocketed into the
net. Tommy
followed it at
high speed, and
bowled over the
goalie.
Killed
him stone dead.
Tommy was a hero
at the Albion, but
the Law made him
do three years for
manslaughter.
Worse was to come
when he got out -
he became a Rugby
League
professional.
Never
played football
again, poor sod.
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