Two Atomic Bombs
Two Atomic Bombs
Poor results are not the biggest enemy for an English Premier League manager. It's flagrant interference from the club's top brass. When you are the last person on the team to know the facts, what is the point of staying there? To the club owner, the manager may be just an employee, and he can be hired for money. Well, I am very happy to look forward to what kind of manager the chairman of Nottingham Forest can get to be their puppet.
It was the first two paragraphs of Twain's column for the Evening Post. This was his open letter.
After almost a month of silence, Twain's column had opened fire again. This time, it was aimed at his former employer, Nottingham Forest.
He exploded with energy as soon as he began writing. It was not merely a rebuke of people. He also revealed for the first time the real reason why he chose not to renew his contract in the column:
When Pepe transferred to AC Milan, I could empathize with how Martin O'Neill felt. A year ago, when Lennon went to Inter Milan, I met with the same situation as he did. If it weren't for the fact that I had stopped drinking a long time ago, I think I'd have called him and invited him to have a drink together. Look at us, two poor managers.
Since leaving the position, I have had a lot of things I wanted to say. At the time, Martin O'Neill had just taken over. I did not want to talk too much about a team that I was no longer coaching. It would have affected the new manager and team if I had done that. I do not doubt my influence on the team at all. Yes, I am very confident on that point.
I chose to shut up because I thought it was for the good of the team.
Now, things have changed, and O'Neill has resigned. I do not think the Forest team's situation can get any worse, so I am choosing to let you read the words that are buried deep in my heart.
Life and work are made up of many details. These details are often overlooked, but I am a person who cares about details. With regards to Lennon's transfer, I saw something that I was most unwilling to see—the club's senior management becoming used to getting involved with the team. It was supposed to be absolutely forbidden in the verbal agreement between Evan Doughty and I. For the past 11 years, the original verbal agreement was no longer binding. Following which, I realized that such a situation would only increase over time, plaguing me until I was completely exhausted. Just like what Martin O'Neill did today, I chose to leave at the most glorious time. Perhaps that would also give everyone a beautiful view of my departing figure. Now, it seems that perhaps a silent departure did not achieve that effect. I tried to be clever, and it ended up backfiring.
I have to apologize to the fans who still deeply love Nottingham Forest and have been hurt by my attitude. I am sorry I am unable to continue to coach Nottingham Forest. I had always wanted to end my coaching career there. However, the current environment was not good for me. Wherever I am, my love for Nottingham Forest, my love for you all, has never changed…
The Nottingham Evening Post cleverly placed the image of Martin O'Neill, who had resigned, and the contents guide to Twain's open letter together on the front page of the special edition for a comparative reference. It also reminded the readers who bought a copy of the special edition what was discussed in it.
It was the story of two men who left Nottingham Forest.
The headline on the front page was also full of meaning:
They came one after another, and they left one after another.
The subtext pointed directly to the club. It was what Pierce Brosnan wanted to imply.
The open letter Twain wrote was long. It occupied half a page. Twain did not know how many words he wrote. He kept writing what he wanted to express what was in his heart. When he finished typing what was on his mind, his arms were so sore that he could not straighten them.
For the Nottingham Forest fans, the article was as explosive as when the United States military dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Japan. Putting it next to the news of Martin O'Neill's resignation, it was even more shocking. It was like there were two atomic bombs with the other one dropping on Nagasaki.
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"Martin O'Neill announced earlier this morning that he had already applied to step down as the Nottingham Forest manager. There has been no response from the club's senior management to his application at this time. Our reporter found O'Neill, who was about to leave, at the gate of Wilford..."
In the noisy and shaky image shown from the camera footage, O'Neill was standing by his car door to answer questions from the reporters.
"My resignation has been approved... This has nothing to do with Tony Twain... I believe they'll soon announce a press conference..."
The scene was noisy. His voice could not be heard clearly, but the key meaning was still expressed.
A group of people drinking at the Forest Bar stared dumbstruck at the big-screen LCD television set hanging on the wall. More than two months ago, they watched the news of Tony Twain's sudden departure in the same spot. Now they saw that Martin O'Neill had suddenly resigned. Their brains had lost the ability to think. They did not know what to think about the matter.
Perhaps Bill's first reaction was the truest. He just swore, "F*ck." It was not known who he cursed about. Was it Martin O'Neill who resigned? The chairman of the club? The reporter who reported the news that had spoiled his day? Or, was it himself?
The news continued. The front door was slammed open by someone.
Fat John crashed through the door and entered carrying a pile of newspapers.
Seeing Bill standing in a daze in front of the television set watching the news, he laughed and walked over. He put a newspaper on the table where he was. He went to the next table to issue the newspaper. After he put a newspaper on every table in the bar, he had one copy left, which was his own.
Someone noticed his unusual behavior and asked, "What are you going, Fat John? I'll take a drink if you're buying. But I'm not reading the newspaper you bought."
John leaned against the bar, asked for a drink, and replied, "Aren't you always demanding for the truth about Tony's resignation? It's all in there." He pointed to the newspaper placed in front of the other man, which had the word "special edition" on it. It was an issue rushed out specifically for everything that happened to the Forest team.
He had just stopped talking when the group of people who were stupefied like blocks of wood suddenly scrambled for the newspapers in front of them.
Bill did not move. He moved his gaze from the TV screen and turned his attention toward John.
John smiled at him, sipped his drink, and began to read the newspaper.
The tone of Twain's column was more moderate than when he went to war with other columnists. But the force of his innate sarcasm was no less.
John was in a good mood, which seemed contradictory against such a news backdrop. His delight had nothing to do with Nottingham Forest. Anyway, Nottingham Forest was already in this state. It would no longer be surprising if something worse were to happen. What made him happy was that the real Tony Twain was back. There was another reason, which was that Tony Twain was precisely as he thought. He had never betrayed them. He had always loved the team and this group of fans.
His mood was like knowing that an old friend, whom he had lost contact with for many years, had been thinking about him. It warmed him from the bottom of his heart.
This is enough, Tony. Do a good job with the national team. I may be a Nottingham Forest fan, but I'm also an Englishman.
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It had only been half a day, but Martin O'Neill's resignation and Tony Twain's open letter had already spread throughout England. Major and minor media outlets had reprinted the report, which could be considered a grand occasion.
As the team that had just won the Treble, even if they fired a groundsman, it would appear in the media, not to mention the major news of changing two managers within two months.
It was clear that Nottingham Forest was caught up in some kind of internal strife. Many people were now clear on the cause of the internal strife. There had been too much interference from the club's senior management in the affairs of the team, which caused the two former managers' dissatisfaction. Therefore, they did not renew the contract and resign as a protest.
It was unfortunate for the players and the fans who adored Nottingham Forest.
Afternoon training that day was completed under the guidance of the assistant manager. Everyone was distracted. Kerslake had wanted to continue the afternoon training schedule, but he changed the training schedule at the last minute when he saw how the team looked. He also thought about the reporters who were crowded outside. He announced a half-day off in the afternoon.
He was worried about how many of these players would remain on the team.
He suddenly thought how fortunate he would be if a strong man were standing next to him who could make him feel safe. When he encountered difficulties, he would come up to him and say, "Don't worry, David. I'm here." Or, he would grin and say, "I have an idea, David. Do you want to hear it?"
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Wood received a call from Billy Woox on his way home.
"Martin O'Neill has resigned. Do you still plan on staying on such a team? Real Madrid has offered you an annual salary of 15 million euros before tax. All you need is to sign it. That's what you're going to earn for the next four years."
Surprisingly, the Forest captain did not hesitate and firmly rebuffed his agent.
"No, I'm going to stay here."
"I can predict the fate of this team in the next few years—a decline in results and damage to its reputation. Furthermore, due to the enmity with the other teams over the past decade, everyone will want to beat the previously arrogant and domineering Treble winner. Your games are going to be tough. You may not win a championship, George." Woox calmly analyzed the downsides of staying on in the Forest team for him.
"I don't care. I've won enough titles."
Woox smiled and said, "That's true. You've obtained all the honor you can win as a club player. I still don't want you to stay here. Evan Doughty is a big idiot, and that old friend of his is the lesser idiot. Such a team does not deserve your loyalty. You're the best player in the world, George. You should play for the best team and show the world your ability."
"Do you feel that your income will be reduced if I continue to stay here?"
Woox laughed heartily. He thought Wood was so cute about it. He laughed until he coughed and said, "Ha... Ahem, ahem! I don't mind how much money I make, George. I care about you."
"I think I have enough money now."
"But do you feel happy playing on a team like this?"
"I'm happy," George Wood replied.
"You're lying, George. Tell me the real reason, or I'm not done with you. I will call you in the middle of the night every day to tell you which club has taken a fancy to my dear George." The old man was really like a naughty boy.
Wood was silent for a moment. He was almost home. If he were to continue to be entangled with the old man, it would not be good if his mother asked about it. It was easy to deal with his agent, but it was hard to deal with his mother.
"I want to remind you not to make up any excuse to fool me. I've crossed more bridges than the number of roads you've walked on, darling."
"Because I'm the team captain," Wood said.
Woox thought Wood would say a few words to explain, but Wood only spoke one sentence and said nothing else. It gave him the feeling that he was left hanging. He paused and asked, "That's it? Nothing else?"
"That's it."
"Why do you have that idea? A team captain can be changed when the new manager comes. It doesn't mean anything. If they can draw in your loyalty by giving you a captain's armband, then your loyalty is not worth much money. What happened to you? Were you affected by today's events?"
"Nothing is going on with me. I'm telling the truth. I'm the captain, and I can't leave my team. I don't want to abandon a bunch of people and leave on my own like he did!" Wood rarely raised his voice and spoke seriously.
This time, it was Woox's turn to be silent. He knew who the "he" was that came out of Wood's mouth.
"Very well, George... You do what you want, as long as you think this is for the best. But it is such a terrible excuse!" Woox hung up the phone.
※※※
As the night wore on, the last afterglow of the setting sun lingered at the border of the western sky and horizon. It was clearly visible outside the window due to the flat terrain in Wilford and the lack of any tall buildings in the surroundings within the field of view.
Surrounded by the dense forest, Wilford exuded sections of ink-like darkness against the backdrop of the afterglow. At this time, even the turf maintenance workers were gone. Only the club chairman's office had a light peeking through Wilford.
Evan Doughty stood in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling window, looking out of the window at the twilight. On the table behind him was a copy of the Nottingham Evening Post, which had been published that afternoon.
There were only four pages in the special edition. Two of them belonged to Martin O'Neill, and two pages belonged to Tony Twain.
He had read all the pages with a kind of calmness that exceeded Allan's expectations. The so-called "calmness" was observed by Allan, which meant that the club chairman did not swear angrily while he read, stop reading and ball up the newspaper to toss it in a trash can, or tear it into pieces and light it on fire with a lighter. He read the articles quietly and sat there without saying a word.
Allan knew he would be facing more rights and wrongs from now onward. It was not wise to disturb him at this time. So, he quietly took his leave.
Evan had long snapped out of his contemplation. He was hiding from the media. He knew that there would be a lot of media out there hoping to interview him, even if the club had already announced a press conference for the next day. Those hungry paparazzi were not satisfied. They wanted to know more, and they wanted to know more inside information. Or, they just wanted to capture a photograph of Evan Doughty with a panicked expression.
When the last glimmer of light disappeared under the heavy night, Evan Doughty emerged like a thief from the dark three-story building and slipped into the parking lot by staying close to the wall. His driver, waiting in the car for him, had fallen asleep. He had to knock on the car window to wake up the driver, who had tilted his head against the driver's seat and was drooling.
"Ah? I'm sorry, Sir... I fell asleep... Sorry..." The groggy driver opened the car window and wiped the sticky drool off his chin with his other hand as he stammered his apology.
Evan impatiently tapped the car door and interrupted him, "Open the door and drive home!"
When the dark red Audi appeared at the gate, the security guard had the illusion that the hood of the car was alive. It moved to the left and right as if to observe the situation ahead.
The driver honked at the guard to signal to open the closed gate but was scolded by the chairman.
"Don't press the horn!"
He was afraid that the sound would be heard by the reporters hiding in unknown places. It was reasonable to say that considering the time, there should not have been any more reporters around. Or perhaps it was merely his guilty conscience.
The beautiful modern electric gate moved slowly before Evan Doughty's eyes to give way to the car. In his eyes, it moved more slowly than a snail. He somewhat missed the arabesque iron gate that was torn down. Ian MacDonald would open the gate with his hands as if he were a strong, young man. The speed was much faster than this modern gizmo controlled by a computer program.
When the gate was opened half-way amid the rumbling sound, Evan urged his driver to drive the car through. For him, it was becoming more dangerous every second they waited.
He still miscalculated. When his car had just pulled out of the gate at its slowest pace, a group of reporters came out of nowhere and suddenly appeared on both sides and in front of the car.
The driver was startled and hit the brakes.
He could not escape.
The reporters swarmed up when they saw the car stopped. They carried their video cameras, cameras, and microphones to the rear window.
"Mr. Doughty! Can you share your thoughts on O'Neill's resignation?"
"Tony Twain claims that his departure is entirely your responsibility. Do you have any response to that, Mr. Doughty?"
"How do you feel about losing two managers in a row in two months?"
"Mr. Doughty, can you answer a few questions? Just a few!"
"Nottingham Forest has lost a manager less than half a month before the start of the league tournament. Do you have a new manager lined up?"
"What's the future of the team? Real Madrid is said to have made an offer for George Wood once again. Will he leave?"
Countless questions accompanied by camera flashes battered Evan Doughty. His face was ghastly white from the flashbulbs.
He tried to arrange his expression to look better and ignore the reporters. He only urged the driver to drive the car to get out of there.
When the car started again, the reporters blocking in the front retreated and snapped photos at the same time. When they were certain they could not take any newer shots, they gave way to the car.
The dark red Audi engine made a booming sound of being suppressed for too long and rushed out in front of the reporters like it was fleeing.
A photojournalist pressed the shutter to capture the tail of the car, which stirred up a cloud of dust.
"This photo is awesome. The pathetic-looking club chairman speeding away. Let's hope he can have a good dream tonight."