“Loser. Joke. Embarrassment.” The heckles burn like acid.
Any individual who drinks from the poisoned chalice that is football management knows they must face up to their critics when the going gets tough.
Although my naysayer is not a disillusioned supporter, instead it’s my girlfriend. And I’m not in football management per se, her abuse follows my revelation that I’m going to be recording my virtual dugout experiences.
It’s been a week since the release of Football Manager 2015, the latest in the award-winning management sim. The game that turns armchair wannabes into real-life Mourinhos, literally so in Azerbaijan, and pains chairmen and CEOs across the land who become inundated with applications from gamers claiming they’ve guided Brackley Town to the Champions League within eight seasons.
A footballing hipster’s paradise, Football Manager propels players into a world where late equalisers lead to sleepless nights, notes in your iPhone become filled with first and second XIs and suits are worn for FA Cup finals. It’s only fair.
Although my own adventure may not be any different from yours, I wanted to invite anyone interested to share the highs and lows that come with pointlessly devoting hours to something that literally provides no purpose aside from self-satisfaction.
To do so, I needed to pick a team. I left that up to chance, although I ensured that my club-to-be was based in England. I am far too pale to up-sticks and move somewhere warmer. David Moyes should know better, Spain will have no mercy on his pasty complexion.
What better way to decide my future employers than the tried and tested, name out of a hat. After a gruelling process that lasted way longer than I ever imagined (we lost five good men picking this team), I had my club.
The tension was unbearable. Would I be dislodging Arsene at Arsenal? Moulding the talented youngsters at Derby? Or perhaps I’d turn up back in my home town, leading Portsmouth’s long journey back into the promise land.
No, the hat chose what the hat chose and sunny Suffolk came calling as poor, helpless Mick McCarthy took the dreaded call late last night.
Ipswich.
The team that made Martijn Reuser a star and gave Pablo Counago a national platform to look gorgeous. I remember watching my first ever football game on a widescreen TV take place at Portman Road. The sort of connection I’m sure the fans will really relate to.
Imaginary contract signed, metaphorical bags packed and Titus Bramble picture framed, it was time to become one of the Tractor Boys.
With the Championship more open than a lady of the night, I know it will be unpredictable from the very off. I’d like to tell you where I plan to finish but as Gazza once said, I never predict anything, and I never will.
On that note, time to get ready for pre-season.
But first, I’ve got some washing up to do…
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