Chapter 6: Chapter 6: A Legend Returns...
After Kieran Mckenna and Michael Carrick left, a significant portion of the coaching staff left, leaving me with a depleted coaching team. With the upcoming season just around the corner and the players returning from international duty, it was crucial to find a suitable replacement for the assistant coach position. Therefore, I had to act quickly to reinforce the coaching staff to ensure that the team was adequately prepared for the upcoming challenges.
Although my knowledge of the future could have assisted me in identifying potential players for the upcoming transfer window, scouting for the skilled coaching staff who are capable of instilling the specific philosophy I desire within my team would have been a task that couldn't have been facilitated by my future knowledge.
Fortunately, in this life, I had worked tirelessly with the great Sir Alex Ferguson and thus had met and worked with a plethora of great football coaches over the years; that's how I found myself sitting in a coffee shop not far from Old Trafford waiting for who would hopefully be my first recruitment and assistant coach.
Sitting in the coffee shop, I glanced around and appreciated that I wasn't too famous. It was mid-afternoon, and the cafe was quiet, with only a few customers scattered about. I couldn't help but think about how different my experience would be if I were someone more well-known. When the season begins, I wouldn't be able to enjoy simple things like this without being recognized and approached by fans. But now, I was relieved I could sit here, quietly sipping my coffee, without drawing undue attention.
My mind was wandering when I heard the doorbell ringing. I swiftly turned my gaze to the cafe entrance, and to my surprise, I saw a face that looked all too familiar. It was Steve McClaren, a man I had known from my TV screen since childhood. However, as I observed him, I noticed he had aged drastically. His skin was rough and weathered, and his eyes, which once held a spark of youthfulness, were now dim and sunken. Despite the passage of time and the physical changes that had occurred, his eyes still held a certain depth of wisdom. His once blonde hair was now thin and grey, but there was no mistaking it - it was Steve McClaren in the flesh.
For many football enthusiasts, Steve McClaren's name is synonymous with the infamous "wolly with the brolly" incident during his stint as England's national team coach. However, those with a deeper understanding of the sport's history would undoubtedly recall his pivotal role in Manchester United's legendary treble-winning season as he stood alongside Sir Alex Ferguson on the touchline. Despite the negative backlash he received as England's coach, McClaren's contributions to football cannot be overlooked or understated.
As soon as our eyes met, Steve McClaren's face broke into a genuine smile that radiated warmth and hospitality. He welcomed me with a firm handshake and spoke in a friendly, sincere tone. "You must be Matt Smith," he remarked, a twinkle in his eye. "I must say, I quite enjoyed your press conference last week. It's been a while since I've seen journalists so caught off guard."
When someone who played an important role in Manchester United's historic achievement of winning the treble complimented me, I felt a mix of emotions—pride, gratitude, and a bit of flusteredness. Despite my initial surprise, I quickly regained my composure and offered a humble reply: "It was only a matter of time before someone did, right?"
"Right you are, lad, but why don't we get on with what you wanted to meet me about?" His smile was still present, but his eyes held a bit of questioning as he sat across from me.
"Of course, as you know, I was recently appointed as interim manager of Manchester United; however, I find myself without an adequate coaching staff, especially for the assistant manager role, and was hoping that maybe you'd be willing to give me a hand in that." I tried to sound as genuine as possible without coming off as begging.
Steve's expression morphed from surprise to skepticism to uncertainty before finally settling on indecision. He scratched his chin thoughtfully, his eyes darting back and forth as he mulled over my request. "I don't know, lad," he said slowly, his voice tinged with regret. "I've been out of the game for a while now. I'm jumping back in for such a big job. One that most say is doomed to fail...I want to help you, but I'm not sure how much I have left to give."
After a long pause, Steve's gaze drifted off into the distance, lost in thought. I could see the weight of his past experiences on his mind. He was clearly hesitant to return to a game that had taken so much from him.
But then, as if something had sparked within him, Steve turned back to me with eyes that held a sudden spark of interest. An ember of his past ambition seemed to reawaken, fueled by the opportunity I had presented him. It was a glimmer of hope that I had not expected, and it gave me renewed faith in the power of second chances.
"Sell me your pitch, lad, and then we'll talk..."
As I saw interest spark in his eyes, I reached down to the bag at my feet and pulled out a folder. Carefully unfolding it, I revealed the result of my labor over the past couple of days. Inside was a detailed tactical analysis I had been working on since I stumbled upon it at the football library.
Despite Steve's failure as a head coach, his reputation as a tactician was not to be underestimated. As someone who had worked alongside one of the greatest managers of all time, Sir Alex Ferguson, he possessed a wealth of knowledge, evident in the few hours I had spent reading his work. His understanding of the tactic almost rivaled my own, and as I presented it to him, I could tell he was intrigued.
"So what do you think?" My words were hesitant; while he'd placed down the folder minutes ago, he'd yet to respond to me in any way, so I was unsure whether or not he was interested.
Steve was clearly in deep contemplation, his fingers tapping anxiously on the sturdy oak table as he considered the gravity of the situation before him. "I can't help but think, my friend," he said at last, his tone measured and grave, "that what you have here is nothing short of pure, unadulterated genius - the kind that borders on madness. You could take the Premier League by storm, becoming a true force to be reckoned with. Alternatively, you could sink into its depths, never to be heard from again. And to be perfectly honest, I'm still not sure which outcome is more likely to occur."
"Modern football is heavily reliant on systems and structured patterns to achieve success, yet here you are challenging that norm," he said, pausing to sip his tea. "What you have created could be seen as a complete contradiction to the philosophies Klopp and Pep have instilled in the Premier League."
As I spoke, my passion for football could be felt. "It's the only way I can see Manchester United regaining control of English football," I said, my voice rising with conviction. "If we attempt to copy Pep or Klopp, we'll play them at their own game, and we will lose. If we can innovate and change how the beautiful game is played, then maybe we can overthrow the balance of power and their grip over the Premier League."
As I finished my impassioned speech, there was a moment of silence. Then, a chesty chuckle erupted from Steve McClaren, who had been listening intently. He looked me in the eyes, nodding in agreement. It was clear that he shared my vision for the future of football.
Steve McClaren's eyes glistened with a hint of emotion as he leaned in to whisper to me. "You have no plans of being an interim coach, do you?" he asked in a low voice, making sure no one else could hear us. "The way you speak isn't of a placeholder but of a man who thinks he can take over permanently. You remind me of myself," he continued, his voice taking on a nostalgic tone. "When I first left United, I was full of dreams of grandeur with the belief that I would succeed." A bitter chuckle escaped him as he reminisced about his past.
"I failed, of course, but I expect that's where we differ," a twinkle in his eye. He leaned back in his chair, his hands folded across his lap, and gazed out the window at the bustling street below. "I see something in you I've only seen in one other, Sir Alex Ferguson himself: a drive to succeed not out of greed or a wish for glory but because you see no other alternative."
He turned his gaze back to me, looking straight through me. "You have a hunger, a fire in your belly that sets you apart. I can sense it. I can feel it." He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath.
"Very well, lad," he said, his voice soft and gentle. "My services are yours as long as you need me. I'll be here to guide you, mentor you, and help you achieve your vision. But remember, it won't be easy. There will be setbacks, failures, and disappointments. But if you stay true to yourself and keep that fire burning bright, you can achieve anything you set your mind to." He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with intensity. "Do you understand?"
As soon as those words left his mouth, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. It was as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders, and I could finally breathe again. I couldn't help but express my gratitude with a voice that trembled with emotion. "Thank you so much," I replied, "I promise I won't let you down."
Steve chuckled, the sound becoming a familiar part of his demeanor. "Don't take it so seriously, my friend. It's just a game, after all..." He patted my arm reassuringly before standing up from his seat. "But if we truly intend to dominate the world of football, we can't afford to waste any time sipping tea and chatting. We have work to do, my friend..."
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