January Window Read Online Free Page A
Author: Philip Kerr
couldn’t buy a bag of potato chips without paying too much for it.’
‘I see. Well, it’s your choice who you trust to make a deal, Viktor. Your choice and your money.’
‘For sure. By the way, did you see the programme? Panorama ?’
‘Me? Unless it’s football or a decent film I never watch telly. Least of all crap like Panorama .’
‘Just so you know, I’m suing them. There wasn’t a word in that programme which was true. They even got my patronymic wrong. It’s not Sergeyevich, it’s Semyonovich.’
‘All right. I understand. They’re a bunch of cunts. You won’t find me arguing with that. Will you be at Elland Road to see the match against Leeds on Sunday?’
‘Perhaps. I’m not sure. It depends on what the weather is like in the Caribbean.’
4
City’s training ground, at Hangman’s Wood, was the best of its kind in England, with several full-size pitches, an indoor training facility, a medical and rehabilitation area, saunas, steam rooms, gymnasia, physiotherapy and massage rooms, a number of restaurants, an X-ray and MRI clinic, hydrotherapy pools, ice baths, an acupuncture clinic, basketball courts and a velodrome. There was even a TV studio where players and staff could be interviewed for London City Football Television; Hangman’s Wood was, however, strictly off-limits to press and public on a daily basis, something the media hated. High walls and razor-wire fences surrounded our football pitches so that training sessions could not be subject to the attentions of tabloid photographers with tall ladders and long lenses; in this way bust-ups between players, or even between players and managers, which are sometimes inevitable in the highly charged world of modern sport – who can forget the hugely publicised shoving match that took place between Roberto Mancini and Mario Balotelli in 2012? – were kept strictly private.
And in view of what happened on that particular morning at Hangman’s Wood, this was probably just as well.
Not that there was usually much to see, as João Zarco preferred to leave training sessions to me; like many managers, he liked to observe the proceedings from the sidelines or even through binoculars from the window of his office. Matters of match fitness and teaching football skills were my responsibility, which meant I was able to develop a more personal relationship with all the players; I wasn’t one of the lads, but I was perhaps the next best thing.
João Zarco controlled the club philosophy, team selection, match-day motivation, transfers, tactics and all of the hirings and firings. He also got paid a lot more than me – about ten times as much, actually – but then with all his style, charisma and sheer footballing nous, he was probably the best manager in Europe. I loved him like he was my own older brother.
We started at 10 a.m. and as usual we were outside. It was a bitterly cold morning and a hard frost still lay on the ground. Some of the players were wearing scarves and gloves; a few were even wearing women’s tights, which, in my day, would have earned you a hundred press-ups, twice around the field and a funny look from the chairman. Then again, some of these lads turn up with more skins creams and hair product in their Louis Vuitton washbags than my first wife used to have on her dressing table. I’ve even come across footballers who refused to take part in heading practice because they had a Head & Shoulders advert to shoot in the afternoon. It’s that sort of thing that can bring out the sadist in a coach, so it’s just as well that I happen to believe you’ll get further with a kick up the arse and a joke than you will with just a kick up the arse. But training has to be tough, because professional football is tougher.
I’d just done a paarlauf session with the lads, which always produces a lot of lactic acid in the system and is a very quick way of sorting out who is fit and who is not. It’s a two-man relay and a team version
‘I see. Well, it’s your choice who you trust to make a deal, Viktor. Your choice and your money.’
‘For sure. By the way, did you see the programme? Panorama ?’
‘Me? Unless it’s football or a decent film I never watch telly. Least of all crap like Panorama .’
‘Just so you know, I’m suing them. There wasn’t a word in that programme which was true. They even got my patronymic wrong. It’s not Sergeyevich, it’s Semyonovich.’
‘All right. I understand. They’re a bunch of cunts. You won’t find me arguing with that. Will you be at Elland Road to see the match against Leeds on Sunday?’
‘Perhaps. I’m not sure. It depends on what the weather is like in the Caribbean.’
4
City’s training ground, at Hangman’s Wood, was the best of its kind in England, with several full-size pitches, an indoor training facility, a medical and rehabilitation area, saunas, steam rooms, gymnasia, physiotherapy and massage rooms, a number of restaurants, an X-ray and MRI clinic, hydrotherapy pools, ice baths, an acupuncture clinic, basketball courts and a velodrome. There was even a TV studio where players and staff could be interviewed for London City Football Television; Hangman’s Wood was, however, strictly off-limits to press and public on a daily basis, something the media hated. High walls and razor-wire fences surrounded our football pitches so that training sessions could not be subject to the attentions of tabloid photographers with tall ladders and long lenses; in this way bust-ups between players, or even between players and managers, which are sometimes inevitable in the highly charged world of modern sport – who can forget the hugely publicised shoving match that took place between Roberto Mancini and Mario Balotelli in 2012? – were kept strictly private.
And in view of what happened on that particular morning at Hangman’s Wood, this was probably just as well.
Not that there was usually much to see, as João Zarco preferred to leave training sessions to me; like many managers, he liked to observe the proceedings from the sidelines or even through binoculars from the window of his office. Matters of match fitness and teaching football skills were my responsibility, which meant I was able to develop a more personal relationship with all the players; I wasn’t one of the lads, but I was perhaps the next best thing.
João Zarco controlled the club philosophy, team selection, match-day motivation, transfers, tactics and all of the hirings and firings. He also got paid a lot more than me – about ten times as much, actually – but then with all his style, charisma and sheer footballing nous, he was probably the best manager in Europe. I loved him like he was my own older brother.
We started at 10 a.m. and as usual we were outside. It was a bitterly cold morning and a hard frost still lay on the ground. Some of the players were wearing scarves and gloves; a few were even wearing women’s tights, which, in my day, would have earned you a hundred press-ups, twice around the field and a funny look from the chairman. Then again, some of these lads turn up with more skins creams and hair product in their Louis Vuitton washbags than my first wife used to have on her dressing table. I’ve even come across footballers who refused to take part in heading practice because they had a Head & Shoulders advert to shoot in the afternoon. It’s that sort of thing that can bring out the sadist in a coach, so it’s just as well that I happen to believe you’ll get further with a kick up the arse and a joke than you will with just a kick up the arse. But training has to be tough, because professional football is tougher.
I’d just done a paarlauf session with the lads, which always produces a lot of lactic acid in the system and is a very quick way of sorting out who is fit and who is not. It’s a two-man relay and a team version
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