Whether Boris got to eventually take a dump on that first day I’ll never know. I finished my beer, made one last flirtatious comment to Angel, and scuttled off into town. I tracked down two scrap metal merchants who looked more like hired muscle than businessmen, and we set off back to the Deterlinari stadium. My goal was to make enough cash selling off the printing press to get out of the region. Like any plan thought up in a second and without any fallback scenario in place, it was a corker. Things were going swimmingly. Their initial snorting and utter contempt for the pile of crap I was trying to offload on them had melted to a slight flicker of interest once I had passed around the Marlboro and a couple of chipped teacups liberally laced with turnip cognac! Just as the discussion on prices was getting interesting, in walked Vasa Orlovic. He claimed he heard voices and was checking everything was secure; I actually think he was coming in to take a leak in the slum laughingly referred to as my office.
I passed the scrappies off as potential match ball sponsors and hustled them outside. What a result. I now owed two scrap metal thugs for a wasted morning, and Vasa was going to be watching me like a hawk. Escape plans were temporarily put on ice. I had two immediate concerns. The first was how to bag a shot at Angel before she finally passed into that munt-pig state where she was no longer passable as a female; the other was to put together a match day programme for the opening day fixture against Vrbas, our first opponents in the Serbia and Montenegro Second Division North. One additional slight concern was Vasa Orlovic. Something told me he was the real man in charge, and a real pile of trouble too. He certainly seemed to have the whole place – including the staff and players – in his pocket. Still, at least I wasn’t the most hated man in Novi Sad. That honour fell to Boris Krakov.
The first programme would be a no-brainer. It would contain an interview with Boris to introduce the new manager and his plans for the future, and a look back at the pre-season friendlies. I hoped Boris had whittled the 65 out-of-shape chancers down to a more manageable sized squad. Of course, there was the small issue of balancing youth and experience, especially as each match squad required the specified three players that were under 21. Boris needed a computer to work out the squad – I just needed a beer. I had two choices; drink all day, or start work on my profile of Boris. The bar was being run by Angel’s ugly (make that uglier) auntie, so I headed off to the training ground.
NB. As I said before, this is not my own work. It is Vic Flange’s. The original work can be found on TheDugout, right here. TheDugout is dying, so I’m rescuing the story and giving it the attention it deserves.