Roy of the Rovers – Total Football

“Grandad! I’ve got them, I’ve got De Loon and Luik in my sticker book! Look! Are they any good Grandad?” Roy lent over his grandson, the youngest Roy in the Race family and examined the stickers. “I don’t really know, they must be though if Johan Seegrun has signed them for the Rovers! Why don’t you ask Uncle Dec, I bet he’s played against them!” The youngster sped off across the garden to the patio area where his Uncle Declan McKaffree and Aunt Diana were sat as Roy tended the barbecue. “So Uncle Dec, have you? Have you played against De Loon and Luik? They are good players aren’t they?” Declan nodded, “Yep, Luik is a defensive midfielder, but he can also play at left-back. He’s really good, don’t you remember him, he scored in the World Cup, we watched it together? Marco De Loon is a forward, he plays in my position.” Young Roy was confused, “But if he plays in your position, he won’t get to play, because you’re the best!”

What Declan and Roy had not told the boy was that it was not De Loon who would not play it would be the Irishman. McKaffree had not received an offer to extend his contract, which had expired on the 1st July, over a week ago. The club had told him that he would have to wait and talk with Johan Seegrun himself when the Dutchman arrived and took control. But no meeting had taken place yet, Seegrun had arrived a week later than promised, his wife had been ill and not up to moving, this left Declan in limbo. His agent had received half a dozen or so enquiries, from some decent clubs too, Walford, Weston Villa, and all three newly promoted sides Redstoke, Rotherton and Castleton, as well as new MLS team Brooklyn Dynamos. But, Dec wanted to wait and see the new manager, gauge his chances, financially it made sense to stay at Rovers, he already owned a large house in the nearby countryside and a flat in the same development in the old Melchester Docks as his father-in-law. To keep up the high standard of living that Diana was used to could end up costing him more than a new contract, especially in London or New York. Diana would not consider moving anywhere else, she had hated Scotland and had her heart set on moving to a glamorous city, where she could enjoy the celebrity social scene, fine-dining and fashion to which she wanted to become accustomed to.

Declan was still training with Rovers, which had confused young Roy, who he had taken in to meet the players at the start of pre-season training. It would break his heart and possibly destroy his love of Melchester Rovers if he knew the truth. So Roy had advised Dec to keep quiet for now and hope that Seegrun would see fit to offer a year extension, that was all he was hoping for. For now, Diana seemed happy enough in Melchester, the city had undergone major gentrification in the last decade and the former Docklands area was now the most desirable place to live in the Midlands. It has three Michelin-starred restaurants, a handful of 5-star hotels and a casino.

Rocky was still in Baltimore, so she did not see much of her annoying big brother, which pleased her immensely. He was alright in small doses, but after more than a couple of days, he really began to grate. Declan had also leased a small shop in the town centre where she could show off her high street fashion designs. It was her passion and Dec supported it, but he knew that she would never break the fashion market, he could afford to humour her in Melchester, but in London, there was no chance, she would be laughed out of town.

Roy called out from the barbecue, “Roy, burgers up! Bring the buns and salad over here!” The youngster, sped off into the kitchen and came running back with a bowl of salad under one arm and the package of rolls under the other. He ran everywhere, he was at that age, but Roy was still impressed with his stamina. He could not help but find football links in everything he witnessed, especially concerning his grandson. “Where’s the sauce?” the great man said, again the boy was off, “We want red and yellow! Melchester Rovers colours!”

One day, the young Roy would be the next great Race to don the Melchester Rovers number nine shirt. It was his destiny.

* * *

The press lounge in Mel Park was buzzing with anticipation, the footballing great of the 1970s, Johan Seegrun, was to be unveiled as the new manager of Melchester Rovers. It was no secret, Rovers’ Basranian owners had reached an agreement with the Dutchman months previously, but it was only now with his responsibilities to the Dutch national side over that Seegrun would take control of the biggest club in England.

Even into his sixties, with long blonde locks still flowing, Seegrun looked no older than the man who captained the great Dutch side of the mid-70s and Alkhoven to multiple European Cup success. He was flanked by chairman David Roth and chief-executive Doctor Mahmud of Basranian Central Investment Fund, then outside of the two moneymen were Melchester Rovers’ two new signings, both internationals stars, both costing big money and both Dutch.

Seegrun had already seen off probing questions on his footballing philosophy, how would his famous Total Football suit the hustle and bustle of the English Premier League? Would he stick to his stock 3-4-3 formation? How does it feel to replace his great friend Roy Race? The pressmen were impressed, Johan spoke with a deep and obvious passion, a great defence of his tactical approach and its suitability to the modern game. Seegrun has great belief in himself and in Total Football, he would bring that to Melchester and Melchester Rovers would play his way and that way would work, he was sure.

BCIF had backed Seegrun in the transfer market. Since the now failed community takeover of 2013, the Basranians had taken a back seat, financing the essentials, but allowing the team of Roth and the still AWOL Trevor Brinsden control over football matters. The promising finish of Vernon Eliot’s side in 2013/14 had reignited the interest of the Basranians, with the realistic aim of Champions League qualification and all the associated riches, the disappearance of Brinsden meant BCIF could wrestle control back. The latest mega-bucks television deal meant Premier League football was a place where money could be made, not just a playground for the rich and their toy clubs. Melchester Rovers were still the most marketable club on the planet and BCIF were determined to turn a massive profit.

So followed the two Dutch internationals; Danny Luik captain of Alkhoven, a versatile defensive player, expert in either midfield or defence, and Marco de Loon an adaptable attacking player; a

winger, number ten or speedy centre forward. The two men were perfect for Seegrun’s Total Football plan and had served him well in the national team. Both spoke of their delight at signing for Rovers, of their respect for the club and eagerness to perform well. It would not be long before the Rovers fans could see them in action, the club would embark on a pre-season tour of the United States in a couple of days. Matches in New York against NY Hammers and Boston versus the Braves had sold out months ago. But first would be a real test against the MLS Champions, Rocky Race’s Baltimore Bullets.

* * *

The stifling July heat of Southern Spain was making life very uncomfortable for the bearded Englishman propping up the bar of the small tavern in the mountain village of Salares. “Uno mas?” asked the owner, a typically stumpy gentleman in open necked white shirt and slacks, the man known locally as ‘John’ mumbled a reply and nodded as the Spaniard snatched and refilled the glass. This was real Spain, so close to the Costa but a million miles away from the tidal wave of English and German tourists now flooding the nearby resorts. The Englishman took his beer, span on the stool and limped slowly outside onto the near deserted and dusty alleyway that in this part of the world was classed as the high street. It was shady, the narrow streets perfectly built to offer relief from the incandescent sun. John lit a cigarette and leant against a whitewashed wall, puffing and gulping cold lager.

John Rogers, former Eastgate striker, had arrived in the town some three months ago, a year after he had left the home country. The original plan was to travel to the Caribbean, but that proved impossible, so he took the traditional passage to the Costa Del Crime, joining the world of faux gangsters and wannabes in the English bars of Monbella. Despite the fact that very few of those ‘on the run’ on the Costa were wanted or criminals, the façade provided more than enough shelter for someone wishing to disappear.

But Rogers quickly became a face about town, he flashed the cash, he did not know any other way, he had had too much money for much too long. The ex-pats loved his stories, he was a former footballer, he had many to tell. Nobody ever asked why he was there, where he had come from, or what his plans were, that was part of the gangsters’ code; there were no questions. Yes, the men would ask about football, but that was not a problem, many were from the East End, so Eastgate fans and John Rogers was a hero to them, anything he said was treated as the gospel truth.

Rogers finished off his beer, gave Paco, the bar owner, a wink and set off up the steep steps beside the bar towards the house where he intended to spend another year or two waiting eagerly for the perfect opportunity to return to England. One of the scores of stray cats that populated Salares, meowed and rolled over in the dust, “Hop it Blackie!” whispered John to the skinny black cat beneath his feet, “Go and play with Racey and Tubby!” he said louder, pointing in the direction of an unusually blond cat and his much fatter companion.

The house was basic but comfortable, whitewashed, as the whole village was; two rooms downstairs, a sitting room at the front and kitchen at the rear and a small sun terrace on the roof. The two bedrooms and the bathroom were upstairs, the toilet in an extension in the enclosed yard accessed through the kitchen. It belonged, as did the entire block to an Englishman, an Eastgate fan, who John had befriended in Jenny’s Bar, in Monbella old town. He was delighted when John offered to house-sit and maintain his collection of unwise investments in a near ghost town.

Things were getting too risky on the Costa, he had been recognised at a New Year’s party in town. With his cover possibly blown and two big men pointing in his direction, he had fled the restaurant in

a panic and slept on the floor of a friend’s pub rather than take the chance of being followed to his rented flat. A couple of days later, before sunrise, John returned and packed his bags. The evening before, he had overheard his drinking buddy Colin complaining about his four uninhabitable townhouses in a mountain village, how his bargain had turned into nightmare as roofs leaked and floors subsided. “There’s only one shop and one bar, I wish I’d known that before I bought ‘em. I thought the village was shut for lunch, but there’s bugger all there!” Colin briefed John, “No-one will ever buy ‘em off me, or even rent one for a holiday. There’ll be squatters or chuffing chickens in ‘em, or the ruddy roof will fall in!” That’s when John volunteered to act as caretaker; the sleepy mountain village would be the perfect place to hide. Colin offered him the use of a quad-bike, which was perfect for the steep roads and unmade tracks that surrounded the village and even set up a satellite dish and broadband in the one complete property.

The ninety kilometre journey to Salares to the East of Lacona, from Monbella, took over two hours. This frustrated Colin, but John was relieved at just how remote the village was; in fact the road itself ran out at Salares continuing on as a dusty track into the hills above. “Population of less than seven hundred now, John boy. Used to have over three thousand, not ten years ago. These Spaniards don’t wanna live in the pueblo no more. Not me mate, I’d love it up ‘ere, but the wife, she won’t eat Spanish grub and she ain’t ever gonna cook nothing!”

The houses were at the top of the village, backing onto the herb covered slopes that eventually merged into the great range of the Sierra Nevada. No-one would ever think of looking for me here, thought John as he looked from the roof terrace down upon the village; dozens of deserted properties, with holes in their roofs, just as Colin had promised. He felt a great relief as his friend drove off back to civilisation, the trail was broken and as Colin too was part of the Great Secrets Act of the Costa Del Crime, he would never mention John’s agreement to anyone other than his wife.

John Rogers, former Eastgate striker, could relax. He switched on the television, a small HD set, that still seemed to fill the cosy living room. Being alone in a foreign country could be the most lonely of experiences, but being honest with himself, he was loving it.

The three cats were now yowling pitifully; Blackie sat on the sill of the open window, only the fitted mosquito netting preventing him and his pals from joining John on the sofa. “What’s the time?” John asked the cat, as his looked at his watch, “Okay then, supper time!” He reached to the yellow box of cat biscuits and gave it a shake. The yowling intensified as Racey, Tubby and Blackie wrestled for pole position at the front door. Biscuits poured into three neat piles and water dish replenished, John had done his duty and returned to the television, his only link to his old way of life.

Colin had provided all the sports channels, knowing that as a former-footballer he would not be able to live without live professional sports. Although it was July, football still dominated the schedule, youth tournaments, South American leagues, the MLS and of course pre-season friendlies. John went to the fridge and took out a brown bottle of San Miguel, he popped the top, “Blimey!” he said, flicking through the TV guide, “Baltimore Bullets versus Melchester Rovers, it’s a late one, but I guess I’ve got to watch it!”

Storky Knight

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