by Chris Harris
In fairness to Economical Tony, the first decisive thing he did when he joined the board was ensure that Junior Bents was secured on a two year contract. At nineteen he was still learning his trade as a striker. He had finished the previous season as top scorer in the Sussex Premier with a whopping 48 goal tally, and had started the new campaign with eleven goals in five matches. With virtually no supply chain, he buried every sniff. The team did not create chances in volume, yet his conversion rate was extraordinary. He fashioned goals out of scarcity. That quality is rare at any level, he was simply top of the range. Word travels quickly in non-league football. Other clubs had noticed. Interest was inevitable. So seemingly had Championship team Millwall.
There is an unwritten code at that level of the game. When a young player is clearly on the rise, clubs do not normally trap him. They allow him to progress. If the move is right and the offer serious, he goes with goodwill. Yet when a player is that young and that prolific, goodwill does not mean charity. A transfer fee becomes part of the equation. It has to. The club that has developed him is entitled to compensation, albeit that there was not very much development; Junior was self-taught.
From a purely economic standpoint, the contract made sense. Tie him down for two years and protect the asset. If someone wants him, they pay. If not, you have a striker entering his prime committed to the cause. Worthing and other larger top non-league teams had been sniffing around, team ready, he’d be straight into the first team squad. Millwall were interested in developing him. Conversations between Ed, Dean and Economical Tony were based on what was in the best interests of Junior, being hacked around but covered in glory in the higher echelons of non-league or becoming the finished article and developed by Millwall. Junior wanted immediate glory, but the others reasoned that his long-term prospects were better served at Millwall, which had indicated it would pay £25,000 more, which, for Tony, was the deal clincher.
Also, let’s be honest, as a hit at a non-league team he could be resold for £500,000, a hit at Millwall £5,000,000 and with a 25% sell on clause on the table, a rather reluctant Junior Bents would shortly be off, ironically to the other Den.
It had all come like a bolt out of the blue, probably one of Dean’s posts going viral, espousing the brilliance of Junior. It was weird how four enquiries all came on the same day. Greg had not even considered buying and selling players but reflected as things grew it was an inevitability. It was also therefore time he did what he promised he would do to Ed and Catherine Brown and set up an under-18s team, after all, this developing talent seemed to be very lucrative.
The rest of the board were reluctant to let him go, yet they knew they could not stand in the way of his genuine progression, but wondered where the goals were going to come from without Junior. Besides, Greg had invested heavily in infrastructure and operations. Few felt in a position to challenge his judgment.
The upshot was of course that Denham Phoenix had relied almost entirely on Junior for goals and with their style of football the anticipation of a drop in form and 0-0 draws was rather unappealing. ‘As Palace fans you and Big Mal are not going to like this, but I have a trick up my sleeve.’ Big Mal and Greg were stunned into blunt disbelief as the name Glenn Nelson rolled off Ed’s tongue. Their immediate response was emphatic rejection. Nelson had been a notorious figure, a striker with a combustible temperament who had previously played for Brighton and Hove Albion where he finished as their top scorer for two seasons. Now thirty-three, without a contract and carrying extra weight, after a well-documented decline, through the South Coast nightspots, ending up at Plymouth, who quickly threw him out, into the ignominy of non league. This proved too much for him as well; his lifestyle overwhelmed him. Swearing blind, he was clean, he was seeking a route back through his old associate Ed Stevens.
There was history to complicate matters. Greg and Big Mal were loyal Palace supporters, rivals of Brighton. Glenn Nelson had publicly mocked Palace and their supporters in the past. Pride and football loyalty do not always sit quietly in the background. They have a way of resurfacing at inconvenient moments.
Big Mal and Greg discussed the potential transfer commutations while driving to Margate for a midweek fixture. They had left early with the intention of speaking privately with Nelson, who would be in attendance.
The match itself ended in a narrow victory, another demonstration of resilience at the top of the table. Julian Bent, possibly playing his final game for the club.
Nelson was surprisingly friendly and had clearly lost a lot of weight. The suitability for the job was ignored as Big Mal just had to question him directly about his supposed hostility towards his beloved Palace. ‘Oh that, my family are all Palace, so am I, it’s just press stuff.’ The shift in tone was immediate, as the ice was broken.
Negotiations were pragmatic rather than romantic. The club would not distort its wage structure for reputation alone, the remuneration would be small, but the opportunity would be a chance for redemption and at thirty-three with time to maybe get back to a half-decent level again. A real arrangement of convenience. The offer was heavily incentivised through goal bonuses. It was a humbling proposal for someone accustomed to earning well into seven figures annually. Yet he agreed a week to week rolling contract.
Board meetings, once irregular and dependent on convenience, had become structured affairs held every Thursday. Discipline was creeping into governance as well as the pitch. Greg approached the next meeting with visible anticipation.
The transfer had been agreed by the board via WhatsApp, as far as they were concerned, Ed was the manager, and Greg was investing three million pounds into the club infrastructure, so who could begrudge the sale of Junior. Ed’s judgment was respected with caveats, Nelson would be a glorious success or clanger. But Ed was a tough bloke and as an old friend of Nelson, it was hoped, knew how to curb and work his apparent demons. Dean couldn’t wait to get his teeth into the content creation of the new deal.
Although rightly feeling apprehensive about the loss of their main goalscorer, such was the juggernaut that was Denham Phoenix FC, the board were still bullish as they met that Thursday evening. The timing couldn’t have been better; any misgivings were to be dismissed as tonight, Economical Tony was to present the details of the new clubhouse. With the anticipated increase in gates and practical use of demand for changing rooms for the 3g and padel board courts it was deemed insufficient and impractical to extend the current clubhouse.
Previously, Economical Tony, Greg and the architect had reached the opinion the current clubhouse should be given over to increased and improved changing facilities and matchday refreshments and a state of the art two tier 7,500 sq ft clubhouse was to be built.
The design was striking. Two levels. A gymnasium and function room above. A vast hospitality space below.
The facility was conceived not merely as an amenity but as a revenue engine. It would host functions, parties and community events across multiple evenings each week. It would anchor the club within its locality and diversify income beyond match days.
Conversations had already taken place with Martin from The Red Lion regarding management oversight. There was sensitivity about introducing another licensed venue into proximity of the reach of the Red Lion. Collaboration felt wiser than competition, especially as the Red Lion sponsored the shirts. Martin would oversee staffing and ordering, working with Catherine Brown, whom he knew like a daughter as she had worked for him before and was great mates with his daughter Lottie. His experience would smooth operations.
He accepted with enthusiasm. He did not share the fear that the new clubhouse would undermine his pub. The expectation was limited hours and structured involvement. It was an opportunity rather than a threat.
Architecturally, the structure was modernity personified, with clean lines, white steel. It signalled aspiration.
The cost was projected at one point two five million pounds. A formidable figure for a tiny club, but ambition and a seemingly bottomless pit of car sales generated income that outweighed any hesitation.
Greg spoke with barely contained excitement about the planning application. Outline permission was already secured. Contractors who had delivered the new stand would handle the build. If progress mirrored previous projects, completion by the start of the following season was realistic. A new artificial pitch, a new stand and a new clubhouse within a single cycle of a season meant real fast-moving transformation.
The mood was buoyant. There was gratitude expressed towards Greg for driving the vision. Catherine Brown, long guarded in her interactions, appeared less distant. After the meeting she requested a private word regarding the imminent launch of the women’s team and other operational matters.
The conversation was practical. Recruitment for the women’s squad. Securing a division place. Establishing an under eighteen pathway before the next season. Her focus was structural and forward looking.
As she prepared to leave, Greg offered a quiet apology for prior tensions. She responded with composure and a question. ‘What have you got to be sorry for?’ Dialogue had resumed, if cryptic and something Greg would forensically mull over. That in itself was progress.
On the Saturday following another two nil victory, this time against Rochester Town, spirits were high. Junior made his farewell appearance. The bar at The Red Lion filled with warmth and release. Conversations flowed easily. Greg chose not to retreat early. Instead, he and Big Mal engaged with the new supporters club members, discussing alignment, direction and pipe dreams. It was natural to him, he was an outgoing and friendly person. But his lack of heirs and graces was something that gave the club its real progressive and organic feel. He never felt or acted like he was better than anyone else.
Monday was another pivotal day, they were coming fast and furious for the Phoenix. The 3G pitch surface was due to be laid. But overnight, the portacabins had been broken into. Several foremen and operatives were visibly disgruntled. Economical Tony had already attended the site, and the incident was reported immediately. He was accustomed to handling situations like this. By nine o’clock, the police had arrived.
One of the workmen approached Big Mal. His name was Piotr Mazur. Mal knew him in passing — a decent, friendly bloke. Eastern European, slightly overweight, but he spoke very good English.
“Look, Malcolm, I’m probably shooting myself in the foot here, but I know who did it.”
“What? How do you know that?” Big Mal replied.
“You’ve got to keep this quiet. I’m telling you, and I don’t want anyone else to know. I could compromise myself.”
“Why? Are you involved?” Big Mal asked.
“No, no, not at all. The truth is, my girlfriend’s kicked me out, and I’ve been sleeping in my van over there. I saw who it was. Don’t tell Greg. I know I shouldn’t be staying there, but I work here, and I feel safe here at night.”
“No, don’t worry,” said Big Mal. “I won’t tell him. So who was it?”
By lunchtime, all the stolen tools had been returned, and two of the stand workers had been arrested.
Greg later walked over and shook Piotr’s hand.
“You’ve saved us such a huge amount of aggravation, you’ve no idea. That was brilliant. I know you asked Big Mal not to tell me you were sleeping in your van, but he told me because he knew I wouldn’t mind. Honestly, I’d feel better if you didn’t stay out there. If it’s temporary, I’d be a lot happier if you stayed in the clubhouse. There’s a kitchen and showers inside. I see how hard you work, you’re welcome to use them.”
Piotr looked genuinely relieved.
“That’s great, Greg. It takes a lot of pressure off. I’m going to try and patch things up with my girlfriend, but if I can stay here temporarily, that would really help.”
Greg had overlooked one important detail in his deliberations: the clubhouse was really Catherine Brown’s territory. If Piotr was to stay on site, it would require her approval.
He called her, half-expecting a cool or procedural response. Instead, he was reminded that she had came from an impoverished background and the School of Hard Knocks, and was the last person likely to turn away someone in need of shelter.
At five o’clock, when Pavel finished his shift, she went down to meet him briefly and brought a mattress with her. She had typed up a simple list outlining what he could and could not do while staying there. After speaking to him, however, she sensed he would need very little guidance. He understood the responsibilities.
It emerged that Pavel had once played football himself — by his account, at a reasonably high level in Poland. A broken leg had ended that trajectory. During the long recovery, when he took some coaching badges, he lost confidence that he would ever return to the same standard. Eventually, he decided to move to England and retrain in carpentry and building instead.
“I feel so lucky,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”
“I’ll tell you what, we’ve got the first training session with the new women’s team on Thursday. Maybe you could lend a hand?”
“Yes, of course,” Pavel replied. “I actually completed some coaching badges while I was recovering, before I came over here. I’d love to help.”
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