by Chris Harris
Dean and Piotr were, of course, aware of the situation with Hilario. Neither knew the guy, but Greg quickly worked out during their meeting that his key negotiating card with them would be to utilise the alternative card. Both potential managers were fiercely loyal to the club and to Greg and had realised they worked well together and got on well as colleagues, importantly sharing the same footballing philosophy, and of course, both were highly competitive sportsmen too.
“It’s just five months, at least give it a go, give me some breathing space so I don’t have to hire Vincent,” Greg said almost humorously. “The guy is a nightmare; I’ve already got a farmer trying to turn me over for more money, and I really don’t need Vincent putting a gun to my head as well.”
Their heads told themselves to swerve the offer; their hearts said otherwise. Ultimately, it was their curiosity and the challenge that tipped them into agreeing until the end of the season, with the caveat that if results aren’t good enough, the club need a long-term strategy for a full-time replacement well before then.
Neither wanted payment. Greg told Piotr he couldn’t really have a club joint manager living in the clubhouse, but Piotr dug his heels in. “I feel safe there, I keep it safe and secure and it makes me want the club to succeed more.”
Greg sent a WhatsApp message to the board for approval before he confirmed the appointment the next day; everyone jumped at the move, alarmed by the sudden sourness hanging over the club caused by Guy’s sudden departure and maybe a renaissance following the outstanding performance Dean and Piotr wrestled out of a dispirited squad.
As every business works in cycles, so does every football club. The exhilarating periods when everything seemed to fall effortlessly into place will always be inevitably followed by spells where nothing went right. Success bred confidence, confidence bred momentum, and then, almost without warning, fortunes would turn. For the first time in weeks, Greg felt he had reached the bottom of that cycle and was finally beginning the slow climb back upwards.
Greg could sense a tide turning with the interim appointments; it was instinct as well as plain common sense. To continue building positive momentum with Catherine Brown, this meant compromise; with Pear Tree Farm, it meant Economical Tony.
Wednesday mornings were delivery mornings for Heaven is a Percolator, so he politely asked Catherine if he could pop around for a chat. As well as being hacked off with him, Greg Lyons was also a sultry beast when the chips are down. Of course, deep down she always loved seeing him, but sometimes more than others, and I mean much more than others in the current climate.
Any tension and misgivings ceased when she saw him approaching the shop with a big smile, the clear blue skies that morning seemingly reflecting the lifting of the clouds hanging over Greg Lyons, oh and a bunch of flowers! As she made him a coffee, he just started laughing. “God I’ve been such a jerk.” They both fell into hysterics as all of the negative and hurtful thoughts that the last few weeks had generated simply dissipated in the best way possible.
“Of course I’ll put something in writing. I’m cooking a Christmas dinner on the 25th for myself and Big Mal if you and the boys want to join us or maybe just pop up for some drinks.” Catherine remembered her and the boys’ first Christmas above the shop. It was miserable; she had set up the coffee shop and completely ballsed it all up. That Christmas two years ago was so miserable, so the offer of something really special would be great. Greg and Big Mal got on brilliantly with her boys.
Whenever Greg found himself at a crossroads, there was one person whose advice he invariably sought. Economical Tony had many faults, most of them revolving around an almost pathological reluctance to spend money, but his reading of practical situations was usually impeccable. Whilst Greg frequently disagreed with Tony’s methods, he rarely questioned his instincts. If Tony believed there was a way through a problem, it was usually worth listening to.
The two men sat in Greg’s conservatory overlooking the garden, mugs of tea in front of them and an aerial photograph of the football ground spread across the table. Within seconds Tony was shaking his head.
“It’s worth twenty-five thousand pounds.”
Greg smiled, everyone had agreed £50,000 was a fair price, sure, commercially it was worth £25,000, but this was a seller’s market. He had heard the argument often enough to know there was little point debating valuations with Tony. If money could be saved, Tony would fight for it. Besides the task in hand was not whether it was twenty-five or fifty, it was slashing it from £350,000
“The first thing we need to do,” Tony continued, tapping the map with his finger, “is speak to the farmer who owns Charlie’s garden centre and all of the other units across the road. He’s got additional land on the left hand side. That might work.”
Greg frowned. “I don’t think it’s nearly as practical.”
“No, maybe” Tony agreed. “Yes, imagine a Saturday afternoon. The garden centre is at its busiest, and football traffic is arriving at exactly the same time. It could be absolute bedlam. But we shouldn’t write it off until we’ve looked properly. “The conversation drifted back towards Pear Tree Farm and Sean Powell, and Tony became noticeably quieter.
“I think the whole village knows he’s a dodgy geezer.” Greg looked up but said nothing. “It is underhanded, and we have no evidence, but the best way out of this is to find out what his scams are and then use them to bribe him.”
“I don’t think we can say bribe him, but certainly use as leverage to achieve a sensible, mutually agreeable price”
“Ha ha Greg, I get you. Bribery put nicely. From what I’ve heard, since I joined the club, our neighbouring farmer isn’t exactly running the model farm of the year; there are stories. Apparently, some of his workforce arrangements aren’t entirely… straightforward. Cash payments. Questionable chemicals. Working practices that probably wouldn’t impress the Health and Safety Executive. Let’s just say he seems remarkably creative when it comes to running his business.”
“So, what’s your idea?”
“A few of his workers come to the matches, I’ll oil them up and gain their confidence, I won’t ask them to betray anyone. We just listen. Maybe they’ll mention something. Maybe there are chemicals stored where they shouldn’t be. Maybe there’s something else entirely. If we hear enough to think there’s substance behind the rumours, then we let somebody else do the digging. A private investigator perhaps. Somebody who knows what they’re looking for.”
Greg sat back, surprised less by the suggestion than by the calm, methodical way Tony had reached it. For the first time in weeks, the ransom strip no longer felt completely beyond their grasp.
“That’s actually rather good,” Greg admitted.
Tony shrugged. “Don’t get carried away. It all sounds straightforward sitting here with a cup of tea. In reality, these things have a habit of becoming messy. But we’ll see what we can find.”
He stood, picked up his coat and smiled.
“Leave it with me.”
The Tuesday night fixture before Christmas in non-league football is often a dowdy affair. Oxted were mid-table and would bring a dozen fans tops, but it is one of those games to get out of the way. The announcement of the new interim managers, however, had sparked an interest that actually brought in a whopping seven hundred supporters, and a pretty good atmosphere; the party spirit had arrived early.
What nobody attending could comprehend was the transformative nature of the performance. Guy Stevens had brought in a brilliant, organised, if perfunctory, style of football and was very successful at that. Under him such were the quality of the performances it was a wisdom that they should probably get promoted next season as well, which would be from the Welex 2 to 1, which would be an amazing achievement.
But what was witnessed that night was something else; it looked like the beginning of something spectacular. Piotr pulled all the strings in midfield, but it was how the other players, who had been normally professional but unspectacular, seemed to be enjoying themselves with sporadic bursts of skilled and progressive one-touch football and what were clearly new moves and skills nobody believed they had in them.
Lots of moves did not come off, the anticipation of passes was not there, and sometimes the passes were not there; the excitement was the rapid transformation and the palpable belief that these new moves just needed time before everything gelled. It was a 1-1 draw, but oddly maybe the most talked about game in Denham’s history. This looked like a team that had the potential to compete at the top of Welex 1 and push for the National League South.
The buzz around the club was immense, helped by what would normally be a post-match interview with the manager, but now Dean was one of them, they both did an impromptu podcast instead to discuss the game, where the energy on the pitch was more than matched by the comedic and insightful banter between Dean and Piotr, which went on for twenty-five minutes on the podcast. Over the next week, it gathered over five thousand views, compared to Guy’s three hundred. He’d always posted the interviews on his socials, but the podcasts had oomph, personality and humour, and Dean was one of the stars, not hidden behind a mic
Greg was high as a kite; a superb product had just got better, and he could sense the positive energy they gave off during the podcast. These guys were good, and selfishly, he thought to himself, completely lacking in ambition, which would hopefully keep them at the club, as their potential careers took off. That may, of course, change as time went by, so he knew if they took off, he would have to back them financially.
The Saturday before Christmas was Littlehampton away. The Board had all agreed to go as Greg had arranged an impromptu party in the clubhouse for the board, players, hierarchy of the supporter’s club and volunteers. December was turning into a glorious month, defying the doldrums and misery of the first week or so. So why not have a party?
Oh dear, as it turned out, for a good number of reasons.
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Welcome to Denham nr Lewes 