The Royal Quantum Leap: Episode 2
“This is a disgrace. An utter disgrace. This is EXACTLY the kind of nonsense that got us relegated in the first place. Sort it out!”A whiteboard marker whizzes through the air at near-terminal velocity.White-hot, pure, incandescent rage. I’ve never felt nuclear fury quite like it. My vision’s gone blurry, and I feel like my head’s going to erupt, Mount Etna-style.Moments before, I had – and it almost sickens me to have to report this – walked in on Jem Karacan doing the Harlem Shake in the Hogwood Park physiotherapy room.After a volley of well-deserved verbal grapeshot from his new manager, Karacan meekly slinks away and out of view (not yet aware that he will almost certainly be fined for this latest transgression), with a face like a wounded Alsatian.I sigh, momentarily shaken by my own violent outburst. This isn’t you, I reflect inwardly. Perhaps I’m already beginning to buckle under the unrelenting weight of managerial life.So far, the overall standard of training has been a mockery. Danny Guthrie’s been late on four separate occasions this week as he was “trimming his mohawk”, and don’t get me started on Gozie Ugwu.The enigmatic young buck keeps pulling out of drills due to sudden and unexplained nosebleeds, and earlier today, his eyes rolled back into his skull while muttering the word “embargo” to himself. I’m sure he’s fine, though.To add insult to injury, Jobi McAnuff unexpectedly resigned the Reading captaincy this morning, citing “irreconcilable differences” and – I quote – “the trite and clichéd crime novel you keep on telling me that you’re writing”.No, it’s more than just all that. 2013 itself is proving to be a cruel and unforgiving mistress.Although the price of a Freddo is a welcome 20p, Jessie J and Macklemore rule the popular music charts with combined iron fist and lung. Worse still, every conscious moment I’m haunted by the knowledge that ITV are about to reboot “Through the Keyhole” starring Keith Lemon as host.For the first time since my arrival, I feel completely, inconsolably alone. After all, as L.P. Hartley once wrote: “The past is a foreign country. They do things differently here.”Desperately needing to confide in someone, anyone who will listen, I reach for my club-issued Blackberry phone and select the contact book entry labelled ‘J.R. <3’.“Jason, it’s me, the gaffer. Fancy a coffee? Xx”Ping. The text is delivered. Seconds later, a terse, three-word response.“On my way.”Then, another message. Classic Jase.“Just finishing a Pot Noodle.”My meeting at Caffe Nero (Broad Street branch) with Jason Roberts does not go well.What starts out as an informal chat about the vacant captaincy position soon deteriorates into a manic confessional of sorts.Things get off to a rocky start, with the 35-year-old target man striker insisting I address him as “the Big Bad Wolf” at all times.“Even in public?” I protest.“Even in public,” nods the Big Bad Wolf, imbibing a confirmatory glug of frappuccino for good measure. The sheer balls on this man, I whisper to myself.Somehow, this unabashed display of alpha-dominance leads me to implicitly trust the Big Bad Wolf can keep my twisted temporal secret. Summoning up the courage to lore-dump upon my statuesque 6’1” hunk of a centre-forward, I decide to divulge everything in the spur of the moment.Surprisingly enough, he seems to receive the news that I hail from the future quite well – taking a sympathetic, sharp interest in the gradual TikTokification of 2025 society and Labubu economics, in particular. This is a huge weight off my chest.Our mid-afternoon liaison ends in acrimonious fashion, however, with Jaso- sorry, the Big Bad Wolf suddenly insisting he is going to explore his options when his contract expires at the end of the season.Whether this has anything to do with me candidly opening up to him about my hobbies outside of football* and time-travel, I cannot possibly say.TBBW departs, and I silently watch him disappear into the Waterstones across the street, left only with my thoughts and a growing conundrum of a captaincy dilemma. The squad is suffering from a real dearth of leadership options, and it’s a void that needs filling, fast.A puzzle for another day. It will have to wait, as Reading play Legia Warsaw tomorrow, in a match that many local pundits have already dubbed “one of the pre-season games of all time”.*For the avoidance of doubt: my warm July evenings are currently spent penning the first draft of a pasta-themed noir thriller, in which the villainous Penne Dreadful leaves a trail of murders for our hard-bitten hero to solve across southern Italy. He is, of course, named Detective Inspector Alberto “Al” Dente.Match day arrives.Mid-morning, I decide to lift-share to the Madejski Stadium in the passenger seat of Andy Crosby’s 2003 Toyota Corolla, having foolishly left my driver’s licence behind in 2025.On the approach up Shooters Way, I explain to Crosby that this will probably be a regular occurrence from now on. According to the governmental and administrative records of the present day, I am not road-legal, as I am still technically a 16-year-old boy.“Sure. Yep,” says my assistant manager. I can tell he’s very much uncomfortable with this information.First on the agenda is a Jazz Cafe breakfast with the players, in which I lay down my lofty expectations for the season ahead. Automatic promotion is the primary aim, with a hopeful strong showing in the FA Cup if resources allow.Pleasingly, these demands seem to go down well with the group at large. Royston Drenthe, my fellow countryman and all-round complete scamp, is particularly invigorated by what I have to say.Buoyed by this warm reception, I swell in confidence, and before long I am leading the players in a (progressively less enthusiastic) call-and-response chorus of:“Are you up for the cup?”“Yes, we are up for the cup!”“I said: Are you up for the cup?!”“…”“…Yes, we are up for the cup.”Sensing the diminishing returns, and wishing to spare me from further embarrassment, Crosby leads the team down the stairs as they sullenly trudge off to the home changing rooms.It is an hour before kickoff, and I’ve picked a strong starting lineup for this fledgling early stage of pre-season. After all, this is a valuable opportunity to test ourselves against stern Continental opposition, and set a high standard of performance from the get-go.Between the sticks, young talent Alex McCarthy gets the nod ahead of the more senior Adam Federici, and elsewhere, I’m keen to see what an uninhibited Shaun Cummings can do as a swashbuckling attacking right-back.Kaspars Gorkss and Alex Pearce are a proven reliable – if slightly agricultural – defensive pairing, and the energetic, bustling duo of Karacan and Danny Williams are preferred in the centre of the park ahead of Hope Akpan, Chris Baird, Guthrie, Mikele Leigertwood et al. Admittedly, Karacan still has the hump on with me following yesterday’s viral dance tomfoolery, but he’s a professional, and I trust him to do a job.The rest of the team picks itself. I can’t in my right mind omit the (unpredictable, rogueish) talents of Drenthe, but still have some lingering doubts over his ability to track back along the left wing.In stark contrast: the steady McAnuff, although no longer captain in name, remains a worthy lieutenant and much-needed calm head on the opposite flank. Garath McCleary, ever-mercurial, provides solid competition from the bench and is bound to chip in with goals and assists at Championship level. Further down the pecking order is Hal Robson-Kanu, but he’s utilitarian, and one good performance could grab my attention.A twofold strikeforce of Adam Le Fondre and Pavel Pogrebnyak provides an appealing complimentary dynamic up top. As sad as it is, although fit and healthy, the Big Bad Wolf has requested to start this game from the bench due to the enduring awkwardness of this morning’s disastrous coffee date.Finally, Wayne Bridge is in there to do Wayne Bridge Things. That is: cut a venerable and sympathetic figure at left-back while fans in the crowd make cruel, lazy jibes about him and John Terry.Time to go. I gather the squad in one last huddle.“Show me what you’re made of. Start fast, keep it tight, and don’t c*ck it up. Oh, and have fun, or something.”Glancing over towards the deadpan Crosby for some reassurance, he offers me a sheepish, borderline imperceptible thumbs-up of mild approval.With those final few inspirational words ringing in their ears, the players bolt down the tunnel and into the fray. Godspeed, brave warriors. I’m stood with my arms crossed on the touchline, like a proud, divorced single father of 11 on the first day of term.Gorkss gives me a cheeky wink. Or perhaps he has something in his eye. From this distance, it’s difficult to tell for certain. Either way: I hope this isn’t a portentous omen.The whistle is blown and Reading kick off from the centre spot. We’re underway in RG2, in front of what can generously be described as a modest home crowd.Disaster strikes almost immediately.With scarcely four minutes played, Legia win a throw-in deep in Reading territory. After some intricate triangular passing, full-back Jakub Rzezniczak fashions some space along the right-hand touchline and launches a speculative cross goalwards.Gorkss loses track of his man and can only watch on haplessly as Henrik Ojamaa – all five-foot-nothing of him – connects with his head and bundles the ball into the back of the onion sack. It’s 1-0 to the travelling side, from their very first attack of the match.I can’t quite bring myself to be angry, so instead pull a face that onlookers might interpret instead as Quietly Miffed. There’s no time to sulk, and so much frantic arm-waving to be done.Minutes later, Reading are back in contention as Drenthe (or R.R. Drenthe, as the back of his shirt proclaims, like a modern-day A.A. Milne) whips in a textbook corner for Pearce to decisively thump home with his considerable noggin. It’s 2013 and headers are in vogue, don’t you know.Pearcey duly kisses the badge, which seems altogether too much for a pre-season outing.We continue to tick along nicely enough, until the 42nd minute, when McAnuff unleashes a curling effort from the edge of the Legia box. Channeling all his visceral hatred for my homespun crime fiction, the former capitano’s venomous shot rebounds off the goalkeeper and into the path of a gleeful Drenthe, who dispatches with aplomb. He’s having a good game. 2-1 to the Waitrose boys.Dare I say, with their noses ahead (in, let’s be honest, a pretty meaningless game) my team are finally playing association football with a modicum of swagger and authority. It surely won’t last.Barely another minute elapses and, just as I’m in the middle of deciding upon a half-time snack, Pogrebnyak masterfully holds up the ball in a dangerous wide position before sliding in his strike partner Le Fondre across the face of goal.ALF eats chances like these for breakfast and, popping up at the front post, he proceeds to rifle a powerful first-time shot past Dusan Kuciak. Easy peasy, this management lark.It’s a comfortable 3-1 at the break. Half-time comes and goes, with no changes for either side. I slap a few backs and ask the team for more of the same.Sometimes in sport – nay, in life – you fail to legislate for the small details until it’s too late, and get punished for it. Like leaving the tap on in your en-suite bathroom, or forgetting to pick up bin bags on your way home. The point is: details matter, and, swept up in all my managerial debut delirium, I fail to notice Bridge is looking visibly far more… haunted, than usual.58 minutes on the clock and, with the ball at his feet, the ghost of Vanessa Perroncel dances across Bridge’s frontal cortex. He starts to lose control.A door ajar. A blinding flash of John Terry’s bum. A whirling dervish of pillow and duvet. Stop… make it stop… Please, make it stop!Vision impaired, and trauma response in full bloom, Bridge calamitously spoons the ball into the back of his own net.3-2. Numb, Bridge drops to the turf, only half-present and aware.I slowly shake my head and turn to Crosby, who, slack-jawed and mouth agape, mimes what I can only describe as a racehorse euthanisation gesture.Such dire circumstances call for Stephen Kelly, who is already warming up. Steve-O is subbed in at left-back at the next opportunity, offering his stricken teammate a consolatory pat as he exits the field, which is by no means an adequate replacement for some professional counselling, but it’s a start.For good measure, I introduce Baird and Robson-Kanu at the same time, for Williams and McAnuff respectively. A triple change! Feeling daring today, aren’t we?The next 10 minutes trickle by with a notable air of anxiety. My needless tinkering has thrown off the pH levels of the team, and on the stroke of 68 minutes, it shows.Ojamaa – that man again, a real scoundrel – profits from some half-hearted, lax Reading pressing and snaffles an equaliser out of nowhere. Parity has been restored and, having thrown away our first-half advantage, Legia Warsaw now look the more likely side to score again.Time to earn my bread. What we need is an injection of calm, a steady Eddie, a cool head and a connoisseur of beige. I raise a beckoning hand to the bench and summon the perennially lukewarm Chris Gunter. Oh, and Akpan. Both are issued their instructions and introduced with a quarter of an hour still to play.Late on, just as I start to resign myself to the idea of settling for a meagre draw in my first home match, a wicked lightning bolt of inspiration makes landfall and courses through Robson-Kanu. The Welshman sets off on a mazy solo dribble, leaving dust in his wake, before putting the ball on a plate for Le Fondre (who else?) to poke home.Not satisfied with playing the role of creator, Robson-Kanu applies the finishing touch in injury time, running the whole length of the pitch from a wayward Legia corner and rounding the goalkeeper to boot. Job done.5-3, never in doubt. The final whistle is sounded, a subdued cheer goes up from the crowd, and a maiden victory is mine.The players filter off the pitch one by one, exchanging high-fives. Not a conventional win by any stretch, chaotic in parts, but it represented undeniable value for entertainment. The full tactical debrief will wait for another day.For now though, I have one last unenviable task to carry out before the evening is done. One that I’ve been stewing upon, but can’t justifiably postpone any longer.As he makes his way out of the home changing room, I intercept a cheerful Pogrebnyak and place my hand on him, delicately, deliberately. Instantly, his face drops.Operation Beef Stroganoff is a go.“Tell me, Pavel. Do you dream in colour?”“POG NO THOUGHT HUMAN CONDITION. BUT, POG FIGHTER. POG ALSO LOVER.”Good enough, as far as icebreakers go. I gently close the office door behind us, and we each take a seat.“Me too, mate, me too. Look, I’ll cut to the chase. Anton, the owner of the club – your fellow countryman, no less – is as skint as an acutely impoverished church mouse.”This, of course, is putting it mildly. Any day now, Anton Zingarevich is due to embark on a wayward personal financial adventure.“We need to sell to reinvest, which is why I’m going to be making you available for transfer. Nothing personal, but it would be ideal for all parties if you were to move on.”Deafening silence.The towering Russian, draped in the demeanour of a man chewing on a bee, slowly lets the cogs turn in his Moai statue-esque head and considers his next (sparse) words carefully.“HURT WORD MAKE POG SAD.”Gulp. This cruel betrayal that I have inflicted upon our loveable jack-of-some-trades, master-of-being-paid-£30k-a-week striker suddenly hangs heavy, an albatross around my neck.“I know, son. This isn’t easy for anyone, let alone me. In fact, I once wrote 2,500 words about you, as a wee 17-year-old lad.” A wee albeit very hairy 17-year old lad, I internalise.Wearily rubbing the bridge of my nose, I offer up some muddled clarification. “Well… this took place 11 years ago in my own time stream, but hasn’t quite happened yet in yours. It’s complicated like that.”By now, Pogrebnyak has completely glazed over.“Look, what I’m trying to say is: that same article ended up being longer than my AS-Level English coursework. I wouldn’t have gone to those great lengths for anyone else. I adored you, Pavel. I still do. But it’s just better this way.”Unblinking and unflinching, Pogrebnyak continues to stare frostily at me. No, through me.“🗿,” he emotes.I have sunk so far into my desk chair that I might never re-emerge. On a sliding scale between ‘Very Bad’ and ‘Not Bad’, this tête-à-tête is teetering towards ‘Bad’.With our fraught and fractious bridge-burning session seemingly at a close, Pogrebnyak stands and turns heel to leave.Although: for a miraculous split second, he pauses, his posture softened.As if they were sheets of glacier ice finally giving way and sliding into the ocean, The Pog drops his shoulders and smiles solemnly, bittersweetly, still facing the door.“POG LOOK FOR NEW CLUB. POG NO REGRETS HAVE.” Phew. A wave of warm relief.He continues, still somewhat troubled.“POG SPEAK GOZIE UGWU. GOZIE TELL POG: 18 MONTH FROM NOW, POG SPURN GOLDEN CHANCE IN FA CUP SEMI-FINAL. POG NO WANT FANS SAD MAKE.”Wait, wait. How could he possibly know about that fateful future match at Wembley against Arsenal? Did… did he say something about Ugwu? My sometimes prodigious, often unremarkable under-21 forward?“ANYWAY. POG BYE NOW.”By the time the penny finally drops, Pogrebnyak is long gone from the building.Oh my god.Ugwu’s recurring headaches. His nosebleeds. His sub-par training performances. I get it now. How could I have been so blind to the truth?He is the one. The one man who has the power to understand. He who can scry the tapestry of the old forbidden future, and ensure a new one can supplant it.What he may lack with his feet, he can more than make up for with his all-seeing third eye. I know I must nurture him. His is a rare, precious, beautiful talent indeed.From this day forth, my burden is also his burden. Our burden, and sacred duty.“Gozie,” I blurt into my phone.Yes. Chigozie Eze Ugwu is the key.“Meet me at the Purple Turtle in an hour. We have much to discuss.”Join us next time as we fire the starting pistol on our league campaign, in a climactic away tussle with Gary Johnson’s mighty Yeovil Town. That’s right, it’s a round trip to Huish Park to kick off the season proper. In darkest Somerset. I wonder which Pagan god I’ve incurred the wrath of to deserve that, eh?In the meantime, if you enjoyed reading or have any feedback, you can let me know over on Twitter (@jacobsouthklein). Cheerio.
已发布: 2025-11-28 11:18:00
来源: sports.yahoo.com
