[Sidhe]

When I was very young, only five years old, I woke from a fever and told my mother “I’m going to manage Basingstoke Town.” She had no idea what I was talking about, and probably said, “That’s nice, dear,” and soon put it out of her mind. It was the sixties and English football was not a subject very many Americans knew anything about. It certainly wasn’t on my waking mind, but once she told me I had said it, I thought “what a strange thing to say” and I never forgot it.

Fast forward to 1976. I’m twelve years old and I’ve just discovered soccer. And it turns out I am good at it. Very good. Although soccer still isn’t a very popular sport in America, there are local youth teams. I play on all of them, every league I can, every day I can. Once I discover soccer, I can’t give it up. I even practice in my room at night.

I admit now, looking back, that this is a very odd way for a twelve year old to behave.

In 1980 I’m 16 and by now I’m the best soccer player anyone knows. I’m better than any adult I can get to play with me. “By golly, this soccer thing – It’s easy!” I proclaim, in my youthful hubris. My highschool team is winning everything, and I’m playing every position, depending on what’s needed. I’m even acting like an onfield coach. All my teammates hate me by now. I’m too good, and too full of myself. I walk among the immortals. I’ve been in the local newspapers so many times I feel miffed if the reporter doesn’t call just to check on me.

That’s when I get a very strange visit. There’s a man here to see me, coach says, all the way from England. He’s a scout, and he works for (drum roll please) Basingstoke Town. We have a nice talk, where he tells me that my options in America are too limited for a talent like mine. He invites me to visit his club, all expenses paid for by the chairman of the Basingstoke Town Football Club, Mom and Dad can come too, even coach if I want.

It took some doing, but I got the ok finally from Mom and Dad. They knew by now that soccer was my life. We made the visit.

It was awful. The field, the players, the town – all of it. I looked down my nose at the whole thing. It wasn’t even as nice as my high school. The manager there, a somewhat aloof man, though very cordial in his way, assured me a start at Basingstoke would lead to much bigger and better things, but I never saw past the cesspit that was the training area. I snubbed him, hard, and back to America we came.

I always wondered, when I got older, what would have happened. It’s too late to look back now.

After making a commitment to UCLA, full scholarship and all, I did something the very young always do – I got into a car and drove it really fast. When I got out of it, it was a twisted hulk, and my left leg was still in there. This is 1983, and the technology simply doesn’t exist to put it back on. “You’re lucky to be alive, son,” says the doctor. But I’ll never play soccer again. I don’t really feel alive.

Skipping past all the years of twisting my head back on straight, one trauma at a time, we land in 2000. I’ve been coaching a high-school team for a few years, but I’ve finally found that player - The Player - the one who reminds me of myself. I put him on the varsity squad right away, and for four years he tears up the leagues just like I did. We win our State championship four years running, and come in tops in the National rankings every year.

It was cathartic to get a little of my old glory back, even if it was only as coach of a high school team. It lit something in me. An old fire, gone dim ever since the accident. Maybe I can be good again, maybe..

That’s when the most absurd thing entered my mind. “I’m going to manage Basingstoke Town.”